Unstained
by Obiwanlivesforever
Summary: She promised to come home with no blood on her hands or not come home at all. It was a promise she broke. The 51st Hunger Games through the eyes of Wiress. Rated T because it's the Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first ever Hunger Games Fanfiction and I'm really excited about it. It will be a multichap and hopefully there will be two sequels. I was inspired to write about a past Hunger Games by reading the works of Caisha702, PK9 and Number One Fan of Journey, and chose Wiress as she's one of my favourite characters and there's hardly anything written about her. Also, as the works of Number One Fan of Journey are basically semi-canon in my mind, I've included several sneak references to them in the story. If you're familiar with **_**Brutal**_** and **_**Horrible**_**, try and see if you can find them! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hunger Games; it belongs to Suzanne Collins. I did not write **_**Brutal**_** and **_**Horrible**_**; they are by Number One Fan of Journey. ****Also, I thought I came up with the style of arena and the kind of weapon Wiress is going to use all by myself, but when I was browsing DeviantArt recently, I found someone else's picture of Wiress' games, and it was in a very similar arena with the same weapon. I remember having seen this picture earlier, so it was probably in my subconscious. But I just want to say: I did not intentionally copy this artist's idea of Wiress' arena and weapon. Also, my story is very different from the author's description of the Games underneath the picture. I developed the entire rest of the arena and everything that happens in the Games by myself. So if you're reading this, Atropos93, it wasn't my intention to steal the arena and weapon ideas, but do I give you credit for them. The picture is entitled Wiress's Games and is by Atropos93. Do not search it up if you don't want spoilers as to the arena and Wiress' weapon. **

**So I hope you enjoy! **

~~o~~

_I was born, raised, and died beneath a shadow. Not that of the looming stone factory dominating the skyline of my birthplace, although my house was one of the thousands hidden under its shade. Nor that of the hazy canopy that billowed daily from smokestacks, choking the sun in its sooty embrace. No; while every child of District Three sees and understands those things from birth, I first witnessed this shadow when I was seven years old, though I did not comprehend it for much longer. _

_I was walking home from school beneath the smoggy blanket we called sky, when my attention was captivated by a speck of pure white amidst the omnipresent grey. Rushing to where it lay, I discovered a small ivory-colored songbird, its downy feathers giving it the appearance of a fat snowball. It was, like me, far too young to survive on its own, and had in all likelihood fallen out of a nest perched atop a nearby building. However, as any child would, I took it home and kept it within a makeshift wire cage, where I might gaze upon its beauty every day. _

_Not many months had gone by when I learned a very unpleasant and inescapable truth about the world in which I lived. In a pointless act of defiance against this shadow, I flung open the cage doors and allowed the bird to escape into the night. Although I could not fly free, it could, and what right had I to deny it that liberty?_

_Within a week's time, I found the bird lying on the pavement again, its breath stifled from the toxic smoke defiling the air. This time, though, its feathers were streaked with pitch black soot._

_I knew then that everything had been in vain. Nothing, no matter how innocent, could ever stay unstained._

_Five years later, I had my childhood ripped away from me before a stage in a crowded town square, and the memory of that day and its harsh lesson flashed through my mind._

_But it was not until I was seventeen that I fully came to realize how poignant that long-ago realization really was. _

~~o~~

"Wiress. Wiress. _Wiress._"

I open my eyes.

The grimy window casts a mottled light over the contents of my bedroom, bathing everything in shades of grey. Vision still veiled with the ghost of sleep, I brush away a ribbon of dark hair and just make out the diminutive figure of my father in the doorway. He hears my bleary moan of acknowledgement and the door comes to a gentle close. Although the offer of rolling back over for another ten minutes of sleep is tempting, I bring myself to push aside the worn blankets and meet the day.

Flicking on the switch, I cast a brief look around my room, now blazing with the stark glow of a bare electric bulb. Like every other part of the home I've shared with my dad and little sister for as long as I can remember, it's modest but comfortable. Whitewashed walls free of any embellishments. Two small beds, stripped of their carelessly rumpled covers. Simple shelves neatly lined with the mementos typical of any District Three child: the first wire loop knotted in third grade, a sliver of glass from the lightbulb made in fifth, the fanatically dusted microchip that earned an A plus in seventh. And in the corner ... an exasperated smile crosses my face as I see that Talee has already left her mark upon the wardrobe. The tall wooden box has been ripped from its closet nook and deprived of every article of clothing owned between the two of us. Blouses, t-shirts, jeans and the rare dress have been discarded in an untidy heap of cloth. Rolling my eyes, I slip into a dull grey gown, give a half-hearted attempt at untangling my hair, and step out into the kitchen.

Dad's small, perpetually anxious face glances up from our breakfast of fried eggs. He surveys me head to toe behind his wire-rimmed glasses, opens his mouth as if to speak, hesitates, then mutters, "Eat up, honey. We've got an hour until..."

His quiet voice trails off. Completing the sentence wouldn't have been necessary, even if I hadn't known this day was coming for months. All the dread he's had to suffer for five years was revealed in that one unspoken word.

_The reaping._

This will be my sixth. At seventeen years old, I have only this and one more year of attempting to make myself look presentable for people who could not be more distant from us if District Three lay in the ruins beyond District Twelve. One more year of being displayed like faulty factory equipment at the mercy of a manager, who decides with a cold eye what can be salvaged and what must be thrown to the scrap heap. One more year of hearing the gasp of a child no different from me as they are chosen to be yet another sacrifice to the power-drunk Capitol. One more year of watching them inevitably fall while a faraway city cheers its approval. One more year of gritting my teeth, hoping for the best, and wondering _why._

I hated the Hunger Games the minute I understood what they meant, and it is a feeling that has only escalated over the years. It scared me, at first, that such intense anger could exist within a person without driving them to insanity. It frightened my father, too. He's always been a nervous man, but never more so after mom died giving birth to Talee when I was six. District Three may be one of Panem's wealthier districts, but when a family can't afford health care, they can't afford health care. To be honest, it hasn't affected me that much. I can't remember a thing about it, only that it drew the three of us together more tightly than a bundle of knotted-up cords.

Dad wanted to shield us from the harsh realities of the world. He kept attempting to delay the 'talk' in which every child learns why two of their district's youth disappear each year. But I was a curious child, and once my seven-year-old self knew, the damage could not be undone. Dad tried his best to distract me every time the blaring of the anthem announced what people referred to as the monthly 'slap-in-the-face' broadcasts – excerpts from past Games, most of which featured District Three tributes dying horribly. He'd hoped that my revolted obsession with the Games might die down. Yet it didn't, and it remains the only obtrusive thing about quiet, introverted, utterly _un_obtrusive Wiress Bentell. The perfectly average-looking girl who prefers to do her schoolwork alone, who spends hours braiding thin strands of steel at the wire-making factory, and who has never forgotten the name of any District Three tribute to die within the past ten years.

It seems morbid to most people. That's because it _is _morbid. It's awful and depressing and makes the thick black smog blanketing the sky every day seem that much darker. It's impossible to sleep at night when your dreams are swirling with the faces of people you never knew, people whose names echo a gruesome refrain even in your waking hours: _Bynra Kendall, Thew Canda, Monit Scarnel, Lovi Vargas, Icon Puter, Maria and Spayne Carriedo... _It's unfair that a seventeen-year-old girl should feel she owes these people some sort of debt just for breathing when they are not. It's wrong that she should remember their names better than those of her classmates, mourn their deaths more than that of her own mother.

But it's also unfair that she lives in a world where children lose the right to live by age twelve. So I see it as the only way I can remain unstained, at least on the inside. By respecting those who couldn't.

At least, that's how I justify it.

"Hell-oo? Earth to Wiress!"

Talee waves her hand frantically in front of my face, and I start, realizing that I've retreated into my thoughts as I so often do. She sinks back into her chair with a beaming grin illuminating her features, the epitome of an annoying little sister.

"Sheesh, someone's out of it today," Talee remarks jokingly. "Should I just eat your toast for you?" She pretends to tantalize me by holding out a piece of bread and jerking it back. "I am pretty hungry."

I sigh in exasperation but otherwise make no remark as I reach for a different slice of bread. Despite the fact that she's only eleven years old, Talee's wit never fails to astound me. I may be above average intelligence on the topics of math and machines and memorization, but when it comes to the world of people, I always get lost, unable to read the ever-changing facial quirks and voice inflections. And entering into an argument with Talee inevitably leaves me tongue-tied. I've learned to just nod my head and go along with whatever she says. I know her well enough to understand she prefers it that way anyway. In fact, she's about the only person I can read, apart from dad.

Sensing she won't get a response, Talee switches instantly to a different conversation. "So, d'you like my dress?" Abandoning her breakfast, she skips to the center of the room and twirls mock-vainly in the same patched navy-blue frock she's worn for the last five years. "Blitza Marquee says she's got a new one for this year's reaping. I told her to tell someone who cared. As if I'm going to lose sleep over what she's wearing, even if she is the most popular girl in my grade. Isn't she just the most obnoxious person ever?"

"You look fine, Talee," I put in absent-mindedly, poking at some scrambled eggs.

"You didn't even _look_."

"Yes, I did."

"Well, look again."

"Girls, _please _quiet down." We both turn our heads immediately towards dad's pained voice. Of course. He's always like this around the reapings – extra jumpy, anxious, disturbed by every little sound. And I can't exactly blame him. For over ten years he's tried and failed to shelter us from a world that wants to make us lose our innocence as quickly as possible. Last year, the 50th Games, in which a sickening twist meant twice the number of tributes were called to their deaths, was possibly the worst, though he's by no means laid-back now. Plus, this reaping is its own, special kind of cruel, seeing that this is the last year Talee is beyond the Capitol's grasp. Her last year of being truly unstained.

A tense hush descending over the table, we finish our meal in silence before the ominous tolling of eight o'clock draws us towards the town square.

~~o~~

Our little group separates at the entrance to the town square, where grim-faced peacekeepers divide up a sea of teenagers by age and march them into iron-fenced enclosures. Dad deliberately stalls, keeping us at the end of the line while others surge forwards. The creases on his face spell out his reluctance to let go, even if only for several hours.

His grip on my hand tightens as the arrival of two or so dozen newcomers carries us further towards the end of the line. Muttering nervously under his breath, he straightens his shirt, fidgets with his glasses, shuffles his feet, desperate to find words to convey his emotions. I squeeze his hand sympathetically, knowing exactly what he's going through. This is always the most awkward part of the reaping, as neither one of us is very adept at putting thoughts into words. We're usually interrupted by Talee, who can't be bothered with sentiment.

"Well..." he eventually comes up with, sighing deeply and running a hand through the stringy black hair so like my own, "I guess this is it. Stand up straight. Don't worry too much. One in a thousand chance and all that." His short, clipped sentences reveal a tidal wave of barely-suppressed emotion, and I'm almost overwhelmed by a similar rush of affection towards my father.

"I won't," I manage to get out, unconvincingly. "Worry, I mean." A tentative, watery smile is shared between the two of us, though I'm sure that my age and the high amount of slips it equals is on both of our minds. As if reading my thoughts, Talee steps in and fixes me with her calm but fierce brown gaze.

"Like dad said," she says firmly, steering me off to the side, "The odds are in your favour. I don't care if you're seventeen; you haven't taken out any tesserae and, believe me, at least half of these kids have. Six slips out of Panem knows how many thousand isn't anything to stress over. What's more, you _know _it's not going to be like last year. Only one girl from Three goes up, and it's not going to be you."

"But"- I begin weakly.

"But _nothing_," Talee interjects purposefully. "Unless you've been sneaking tesserae behind dad's back, you've got no reason to worry. And if you _have _been, the escort will have to dig you up, because dad will have killed you first."

Talee. From what I've heard dad say, she's the living embodiment of our mother. Lively, confident, strong-minded, spirited, and completely devoid of any sense of anxiety. Her outlook on life is to take each day at a time and not worry about anything that doesn't directly affect her. A pretty good outlook, too, just one that I've never had the willpower to follow.

"All right, I'll take your word for it," I tell her with as much confidence as I can muster. And then, just because I can sense she's starved for a little good-natured bantering to interrupt the reaping day gloom, "You'd better be right, otherwise you'll have to clean up the mess in our room all by yourself."

"Hey, it's not my fault that my dress was right at the bottom of the shelf!" Talee jumps right in eagerly, her glare melting into the usual feisty smile. "And you're one to talk, with all that clutter on the shelves."

"It's _special_," I insist, as she just smirks, "And it's neatly organi"-

I'm suddenly cut off by the iron clench of a peacekeeper's hand upon my shoulder. Dread dropping back into my chest like a stone, I shout a hurried good-bye to dad and Talee as the man shoves me impatiently into the seventeens' section. Picking my way towards the edge of the crowd to avoid an animated conversation among a large group of girls, I find a suitably deserted corner just as the mayor starts up the Treaty of Treason.

Like everything else to do with the Hunger Games, the Treaty is vile. After five years of pretending to be engrossed in every word of how 'justified' and 'righteous' the barbaric slaughter of children is, I've resolved to simply tune it out by thinking of other matters. I pointlessly imagine wrapping wire around the fence of the seventeens' section for several minutes, but the similarity of those bars to the ones I tried to keep a bird safe in ten years ago is too unsettling. My attention wanders instead to the people standing behind the droning mayor, the only residents of District Three who have heard their names drawn from the reaping ball and survived the weeks that followed.

Our district has only three victors. Old Axel Browser stands half-obscured at the back of the platform, nothing but his gaunt, empty face emerging from the shadows. He won the fourth Hunger Games and has never spoken since, or so rumour has it. The thought of a Games so haunting it defies retelling always leaves a hard, icy stone inside my chest. All I know is that it was before the Games had begun to settle in. Before they were televised and celebrated like they are now. Before chariot races and training scores, interviews and sponsors. Before careers took over the role of the hunter. Apparently everybody played that part.

Seated on the left side of the mayor is a potbellied middle-aged woman named Maybell Lectric. Unlike Axel, the circumstances of her victory are common knowledge in District Three. By the time of her victory in the 17th, the Games had begun to be televised, sponsorships to be set up, and children's lives to be bet on. Next to the starving tributes of Districts Eleven and Twelve, none were more hapless than ours. Lifetimes of sitting doubled-over before factory machines or conveyor belts, coupled with the polluted air, harsh punishments, and lack of open space to exercise in, meant our tributes were easy prey. They didn't even have the general fitness that working in the forests or fields gave the tributes of poorer districts like 7 or 10. Add to that the typical appearance of the population – short and scrawny, with ashen skin and dull black hair – and it's easy to see how unappealing we were to the sponsors.

Maybell Lectric shattered that stereotype. She had grown up amidst the rough-and-tumble of a community home, but it was her cunning rather than her strength which bought her the crown. Through a mixture of manipulation, backstabbing, and stealthy poisoning, she wiped out over a quarter of her competition, defying all expectations. The Capitol was in an uproar, the district in awe. There was even some speculation that District Three might join One, Two and Four in the rapidly developing 'Career alliance' of wealthier districts who trained their children for battle. But, as quickly as she had risen to fame, Maybell dropped from the public eye. Nowadays, she's rarely seen outside of her home in Victor's Village, and that's just when she goes to the market to buy brandy or chases away kids who ring her doorbell for a laugh. I've seen her shuffling along the narrow streets, hunched over and muttering bitterly, and it makes me all the more grateful that she didn't pass on what she had learned to the youth of the district.

The third and most recent victor is Beetee Joule, a young man who won the 39th, only twelve years ago. I know even less about him than I do Axel. I was just a child when dad caught me staring transfixed at the television screen upon which a pack of careers had cornered the young Beetee. Whatever he did to win, it was loud, violent, and obscured by dad's hands over my eyes. I can still remember the screams, though, and despite my hateful fixation with the Games, I have never desired to learn what he did to those tributes. It's the memory of those tortured howls that now strikes me as I watch Beetee adjust his crooked glasses and wipe a shock of obsidian hair from his forehead.

Just as he's doing this, the Mayor rolls up the seemingly endless Treaty of Treason scroll, igniting an uneasy tension throughout the crowd. Clearing his throat, he adjusts the microphone and announces the District Three escort for the 51st Hunger Games, Gallus Flamboy.

Although I've seen him every reaping day for the past ten years, there's something about Gallus Flamboy that never fails to make me cringe. It might be his freakishly pale skin – not a lifeless ash like the typical District Three complexion, but the blinding white of a skull stripped clean of flesh. Or maybe it's his outlandish orange hair, shooting vertically from his scalp and then flopping limply to one side like a rooster's comb. I notice with an unpleasant squirm that his arms are dappled with even more obnoxiously vivid tattoos than usual, and he's added to his collection of rainbow-colored lip rings. He has to be around six feet tall when one takes into account his high heels, which given the shortness of nearly everyone around him are so unnecessary as to be offensive. To top it all off, he can't be over thirty years old but is obviously so sick of his job that his enthusiasm is more to convince himself than us that "this year will be the best Games ever!"

"All right, District Three!" he sings with fake gusto, "Who's ready for the reaping of the fifty-first Hunger Games? Boys? Girls? Hmm?"

The dead silence across the square is the closest our district can ever get to directly insulting the Capitol. Gallus folds his arm in a childish impersonation of a pout. My gaze drops to the ground because I'm sure if I don't tear my eyes away from him they'll burn a hole right through his face.

"No one wants to go first?" comes Gallus' piercing whine. "Fine, then, if you don't care, we'll start with the boys!"

I stare intently at the smudged cobblestones, willing my mind to be as focused on their thin dusting of soot as my eyes are. Nothing can stop the rise of bile in my throat, as if impelled by my pounding heartbeat. A shuffling of papers, then the male tribute joins the long list of names which will undoubtedly haunt me the rest of my life:

"Arkel Schmidt!"

The name isn't familiar, so I don't bother looking up as the unlucky victim makes his way to the stage. I try to find something fascinating about the ground, but my mind's gone blank and I'm only aware of the increasingly frantic throbbing in my chest. _Just a few more minutes. Just one name and you can go home. You're going to go home. Homehomehome._

Gallus screeches some meaningless comment about the male tribute. He must be turning to the girl's reaping ball now...

_It won't be you. Talee says so. _

The slips of paper are ruffling together in a deathly whisper...

_It can't be you. You haven't taken tesserae. _

I'm hardly aware that my eyes have squeezed shut.

_It won't be you, it won't be you, itwontbeyou..._

"Wiress Bentell!"

Somewhere deep in the recesses of my memory, a white bird falls in mid-flight, its feathers stained black.

~~o~~

**Well, that's the first chapter. What did you think? Reviews and constructive criticism are more than welcome! **


	2. Chapter 2

**First of all, I want to thank everyone who read, reviewed, favourited, or added to story alerts. You should know that every time I get any sort of acknowledgement of how my story's going, I feel like I've just been given the Newberry Medal or something. That's how appreciative I am for your reviews. You are all such awesome readers and I'm truly grateful to have so many people reading this!**

**I realize I messed up the order of the reaping ceremonies in the last chapter by having the Treaty of Treason read before the tributes are reaped instead of afterwards. I accidentally mixed it together with the History of Panem thing and had both of them be read at the same time. Whoops! But that being said, I'm just skipping right to the handshake and the anthem after Wiress goes on stage, so no more long droning speeches from the D3 mayor (fortunately.)**

**Again, some of the past tributes referenced in this chapter are from Number One Fan of Journey's FanFictions **_**Brutal **_**and **_**Horrible. **_**To anyone who has read them, keep a lookout for cameos when Wiress is talking to her father in the Justice Building! ;)**

**Finally, a big thank you to my mom for proofreading this chapter!**

**Now that all is said and done, I hope everyone enjoys the next part of the story. **

~~o~~

The world has gone completely blank. Factories, fences, crowds, stage; everything has blurred into an impenetrable white fog. Sound, too, has vanished, leaving behind a deafening silence. Time is at a standstill.

My mind is dizzyingly empty. _Am I supposed to be doing something? _Of course I am. I should be running, shrieking, sobbing, collapsing in tears. Yet the only fear I feel is faint and faraway; a scream buried deep within.

"Is Wiress Bentell here?"

Gallus' grating shriek sends an electric shock through me. All at once the world whirls into sharper focus, the hush broken by dad's disbelieving moan. A sickening wave of terror sweeps through me, as if my compressed scream has burst forth into a geyser. _Oh my gosh. This is real. This is really happening. This is really happening..._

Several minutes pass before I realize my feet have handled what my mind could not – I'm already halfway to the stage. The crowd of seventeens parts solemnly as I wind through their midst. Despite the fact that I've spent most of my life shrinking from their company, I'm compelled to focus on each of my classmates' faces one last time. How do they feel? Saddened? Sympathetic? Or relieved that it is the quiet girl in the corner, rather than one of their number, who is being sent to her death? I cannot read beyond their grave expressions.

I'm at the stage. _This is it. _Painfully aware that each step lures me closer towards death, I ascend the short staircase. Somehow my foot snags on the trailing hem of my dress, igniting a jolt of panic as I trip and stumble forwards. But before I can land flat on my face and extinguish whatever dignity I might have left, something stops my fall. A firm but gentle hand around my wrist.

I look up into the unreadable black eyes of Beetee Joule. Winner of the 39th Hunger Games. The one whose final victory has twisted my imagination for years, creating scenarios nightmarish enough to fit the screams I heard on television.

"T-thank you."

Attempting a grateful smile, I stagger to my feet and turn away. A small part of my dread abates as I wonder what he must be thinking about all this. He's seen so many tributes come and go; will I be any different than the other faceless victims he's been unable to save? Will he even bother to mentor me, or am I already a lost cause? Or what if, by some unthinkable twist, he does see potential in me? This idea is even more worrisome. Will he train me in whatever dark secrets helped him win his Games? Encourage the loss of my conscience? Do I want help from a murderer?

These unpleasant thoughts are interrupted by the mayor of District Three, who instructs me to shake hands with the male tribute. To be truthful, I've completely forgotten him until this point. He stands slightly to the side, appearing utterly unremarkable, and as we exchange a handshake I see my own numbness reflected in his face.

"People of District Three," shrieks Gallus obnoxiously to half-hearted applause, "I give you your tributes of the 51st Hunger Games!"

Now all that is left is to face the crowd while the Capitol anthem blares in cruel triumph. The song has always been associated with death in my mind, but never have the slow, forceful notes sounded more like a funeral dirge than this moment. The sight of my entire home district spread before me is overwhelming. Everything seems harsher now, the roads and factories painted a darker shade of grey, the sky rolling with even more smog than usual. Yet at the same time, it's still the only place I've ever known. Beneath that ever-present layer of soot stretches the familiar road I used to follow to school every day. One of those windows speckling the residential section opens into a room which holds my entire life's work, every class project I've ever saved. Even the colossal bulk of the factory where I toiled half my life away knotting wires together serves as a mocking reminder of all I have to lose.

Of all that I _will_ lose.

~~o~~

Compared to every other building in the District, the Justice Building is practically Capitol-worthy in its luxury, but given the circumstances I find myself longing for the bareness of my home. Everything about this place hides poison beneath its sophisticated facade. Intricate murals on the walls, ornamented with cogs, gears, and iridescent slivers of metal, retell the story of how our country rose to its child-slaughtering glory. The tributes' personal quarters, furnished with dark wood and bluish-grey fabric, seem to breathe with the ghosts of those who sat here before. Perching nervously on the seat of an armchair built for someone far larger than me, I get the chilling impression that these rooms are designed to lull you into a false sense of security before the death blow strikes.

The quiet creaking of door hinges reveals that my family is here for their final farewell. I look up and instantly wish I hadn't. My father's reaction was to be expected; I'd braced myself for the pain on his face from the moment I left the stage. It's Talee's expression, so vastly different from her usual optimistic attitude, that makes me feel I've got a sword through my chest.

Dad attempts to string together a sentence, but can't get out anything more than my name, repeated softly over and over again. Talee walks toward my chair as if she's seen a ghost, huge brown eyes spilling grief down her cheeks. With a cautious air unsuited to her, she pulls herself onto the armrest and simply stares.

"I – I never thought it w-would be you," she mutters almost inaudibly. Her tremulous voice is so hopeless, so lost, that I suddenly get the strange feeling _I'm _supposed to be the strong one here. It's an unfamiliar concept and one I'm not comfortable with. But seeing her this broken is so painful that I have to do something to soothe her, if only to lessen the sharp pang in my stomach.

"Well, look at it this way," I say, grasping rather pathetically at morbid humor in the hope that Talee will be able to relate to it, "it looks like you'll have to clean our room yourself from now on."

I expected her to laugh, for her customary cheerful grin to dawn again like it did before the reaping. At the very least, I'd hoped she'd manage a watery smile. I most certainly did not expect her to lunge forwards and seize my shoulders, features hardening into a blazing glare.

"Listen to me," she snaps vehemently. "_Listen. _You are _going_ to come home." I open my mouth to protest, but her sudden change in behaviour leaves me bewildered and she pounces on this hesitation. "Whatever you were going to say, don't. It doesn't matter if you don't think you can make it. It doesn't matter how many of the other tributes have trained. It doesn't matter how many kids from District Three never come home. None of it matters as long as you stop sitting there feeling sorry for yourself and actually try!"

Her words sting like nothing else can. Contained in them is the insinuation that twenty-three children die each year simply because they did not try hard enough, that they deserved their fates for giving up. And this accusation is directed at me.

"Talee, what do you honestly think I can do?" I ask hollowly. "I've never used a weapon in my life. I don't have the faintest grasp of survival skills. I'm not good with people, I'm not interesting, I don't even have looks. What kind of angle are the sponsors going to get from that?"

"You're smart," Talee insists. "And before you say that brains don't win the Hunger Games, think again. What about Maybell Lectric? Be like her. Don't let them see it coming."

Of all the advice Talee could have given me, this is probably the least inspiring. I can't help but shudder at being compared to a woman who manipulated, backstabbed and poisoned her way to victory. But if my sister still remains oblivious to the fact that there's a line I will not cross, then I'm not going to be the one to shatter her misplaced confidence. Skating around the topic, I pray she'll be satisfied enough with my rather weak response to not pick up my deliberate avoidance of her suggestion.

"I won't go down without trying. You know that."

"I know that?" she retorts. "Do I?" She brings her face, so hurt and unforgiving and impossibly brave, very close to mine. "Look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you'll do everything you can, everything humanly possible, to get home."

"I will." It's unbearable to force myself to meet her gaze when I know my words are only half true.

Talee isn't fooled. "That's not good enough. Say it again and mean it."

"I _will_ try," I repeat wearily, beginning to think I'll never be able to satisfy her, "but that doesn't guarantee anything. Just think about how many kids have been reaped. Don't you think they said the same things to their families? And where did that-"

"Shut up!" Talee interjects, shaking me with a violence only we who know her so well could imagine coming from someone so small. "I don't want to hear another word about any of them. No more Monit Scarnel or Byrna Kendall or Maria whatsherface-"

"Carriedo."

"Whatever!" There's a flash of pain in her voice so genuine that I know she's been hanging on to it since long before the reaping. "Can't you even think for one moment what it's like for me? Do you think I enjoyed watching you waste away all these years, repeating those darn names to yourself over and over again? It's awful, seeing you so fixated over the Games that you don't even smile anymore. I know you think you're making things better, but you're not and there's nothing you can do about it! They're dead and gone and – and – and you're going to be too if you don't just let it go and focus on saving yourself!" She's crying again, tears cascading down her bright red cheeks, and her voice drops back to an injured, despairing whisper. "You're my big sister, Wiress. I've been losing you to the Hunger Games my entire life. I don't want them to take you away from me f-forever."

My sister's words are met with stunned silence. A strange mixture of feelings, grief and sympathy and understanding, wells into a powerful rush of determination. Nothing else, not her begging or screaming or shouting, could ever inspire me to make my promise with the level of sincerity I do now.

"I'll do everything I can do to come home to you. I promise."

We say nothing more for the remainder of the hour. Frankly, it's not necessary. As I stroke Talee's smooth dark hair, I realize this is what I will miss most about my family – how well we can read each other. I don't need to make a fool of myself attempting to explain my tumultuous inner emotions when they're around, nor do I have to drive myself crazy attempting to figure out what they're thinking. There's no need to apologize for feelings left untold, to prove how much I've always loved them, to explain how much I'll miss them. We just know.

~~o~~

The silence is broken by a sharp tap at the door. A peacekeeper's curt voice informs us that our time is nearly up. How someone can speak with nothing but brusqueness in their voice as they separate a family forever is completely beyond me, but I'm too worn down from the turbulent emotion of the day to dwell on this.

Talee makes me recite my promise again, and I retain my previous determination by forcing myself to stare straight into her reddened eyes. Then she finally untangles her arms from their death grip around my body and leaves without looking back. A faint sentiment which would probably be pride, were it not overwhelmed by crushing misery, stirs in my heart. Talee will always be strong in a way I can neither comprehend nor emulate. It's a small consolation to know that she'll be able to carry on, even if – when – I'm gone.

My father makes a sad, strangled sound, drawing my attention to his pallid face. Etched within those far-too-numerous wrinkles is a resignation which makes my own gloomy outlook appear positive. It suddenly dawns on me that while his haggard visage tells a different story, he can't be a day over forty. Death and the Capitol have taken their toll on him as well as Talee and me.

"You didn't mean it," he mutters suddenly. "What you said to Talee, I mean. Not all of it."

Between the two of us hovers the unspoken acknowledgment that there are certain things I will never do, not even to get back home, and because of them I will never be able to fulfill my sister's requests to the extent she wants.

"You're right," I admit softly. "But don't tell her. Please? I don't want her to... she needs to be able to hope when she sees me in that arena."

He runs a hand through his sparse black hair and breathes the sigh of an old, old man. "I don't know what to think anymore, Wiress. I want to believe my baby girl's coming home. But if you're not going to try ... how am I supposed to hope?"

I look at my feet, twisting them nervously around the dirtied hem of my gown. What am I supposed to say? I would have thought that after years of watching me fade away under the crushing shadow of the Games he would understand, even accept, my response. I've sworn since I was seven years old that if I were to be reaped I would keep my kill list empty, and that that promise will always come before the one I made Talee. But how to explain this to my father?

"Dad," I murmur, "You know what the Games do to people. They _change_ them. If I do come home, I don't want it to be as a different person. And if I ended up taking a life ... that's what would happen. I'd be a victim of the Capitol whether I won or lost."

I've seen it happen. Perfectly normal kids go into the arena, start out fine, and somewhere along the line, they snap. A boy from district 9, back when I was a young child, completely abandoned his moral compass at the sight of his sister's decapitated head. There was one from 10, two years after him, who in avenging his fallen allies became just as much of a monster as those he slew. Even among our own tributes, there was a girl who fatally wounded her district partner in his sleep for fear he would betray her. The looks in their eyes as they felt, or worse, ignored, their humanity slipping away has scarred me far more than any deaths ever could. I can imagine there were parts of them, deep inside, that realized what was happening and struggled in vain not to lose themselves. But there was no going back once they had been stained.

"But if you can get through the Games without killing anyone..." dad presses on. "If you lie low, stay hidden, and wait until everybody else is dead..."

It's a strategy that I've considered while wondering how a person could survive without sacrificing their values, and in the present moment it seems the only conceivable way to fulfill both my promises. It's also an incredibly tall order, relying almost solely on chance. Not only would I have to avoid detection and stay nourished for several weeks, but my victory would only be possible if the final two competitors finished each other off simultaneously. Still, it's all I have, and the thought of Talee's tearful declaration inspires me to cling to it for dear life.

"...Then I'll come home," I complete dad's statement for him. "As long as I can do it unstained."

We both start as the door slams open and the glowering peacekeeper marches in. My father's arms embrace me for an agonizingly short moment before he is escorted forcibly away. Craning my neck, I manage to catch a final glimpse of dad's tortured yet infinitely proud face before a stinging wave of tears wipes everything from view.

~~o~~

No sooner has the tribute car's door opened than an explosion of light sears my already raw eyes. Stumbling for the second time today, I emerge onto a landing awash with raucous sound and color. The District Three train station is barely visible behind a swarm of reporters, pelting us with questions as their cameras project our reactions onto television sets across the country. Although I know that all I say and do from this point on will be carefully scrutinized and evaluated by every potential sponsor in the Capitol, I am unashamed by what I see reflected in the massive wall-to-wall mirror. A gaunt teenage girl, her limp hair and slate-grey gown drooping like rainwater to the ground, reddened eyes set amidst a fearful ashen face. Tributes in the past have made a point to appear brave onscreen, but I couldn't care less. Why should I hide my feelings in order to please people who will be placing bets on my life in several days' time anyway? This is what the Capitol has reaped; they are going to see it whether they like it or not.

Casting a glance towards my district partner, I notice that he's essentially my clone. Small stature, pale skin, lost-looking face framed with black hair. With a twinge of surprise and slight guilt, I realize I've hardly devoted any thought to him since we shook hands. I'd expected better from myself. After all, what is it worth to memorialize tributes I've never even known if I can't remember the person slated to die alongside me?

But now that the initial shock and grief of the day has passed, I'm able to place him as being a year or two below me in school. He was a lackey to one of the gangs of kids who spent their days skipping class, neglecting homework and generally acting like miscreants. Needless to say, we didn't know each other well. I try to remember his name from the reapings, but everything before the announcement that changed my life is a smoky haze. I'll have to ask Gallus, although the thought of actually talking to him makes my skin crawl.

_I spoke too soon. _Here comes our escort now, that ridiculous rooster-comb haircut of his bouncing up and down in his struggle to maintain an excited jog while pushing through a dense crowd.

"_There _you are!" he trills, his enthusiasm as noticeably fake as ever. "I've been looking all over for you two hooligans. Now wave for the cameras, kiddies, and be sure to smile! It's the last you'll see of them until we get to the Capitol."

_Thank goodness, _I think as another lens is practically shoved into my face. My district partner gives an apathetic wave at Gallus' insistence, but it's clear he's not enjoying the attention either.

After several minutes of staring numbly into the cameras while reporters clamour for attention and Gallus shrieks of how _per-fect _the entire situation is, the train doors finally slam shut. I'm grateful to be locked away in solitude for a few precious hours before we arrive at the Capitol. Our escort, on the other hand, disgusts me by wrenching open one of the windows and sticking half of his body out, waving and blowing kisses as we rocket away from home. It's as if he honestly thinks people all around the country are glued to their screens to watch him rather than the two teenagers being sentenced to death.

The reminder that each passing moment brings me that much closer to the end of my life is too much. Struck once again by a surge of grief, I fall into a nearby chair and bury my face in my hands to avoid seeing District Three slip past outside the windows. My district partner, standing uncomfortably in the middle of the car, casts me a fleeting glance of what looks like pity but averts his gaze just as quickly. It feels unbearably awkward and helpless just to sit here waiting for our escort to give us instructions, but until he quits posing there's nothing to do but drown in our own misery.

"-And I'll send you all postcards from the Capitol, won't I? Ahaha," Gallus calls to an imaginary crowd of admirers, leaning back into the train and finally closing the window. Laughing to himself, he sweeps his gaze around the car for a moment before realizing we're still here. It's actually rather comical to see his eyes bulge in shock, although there's nothing funny whatsoever about the scenario.

"What are you two doing, just sitting around?" he scolds overdramatically. "Why, there's plenty to see and do right here before we even get to the Capitol! Your bedrooms and wardrobes are right down that hall-" he flicks his hand towards the back of the train, "-so if you want to change out of... whatever it is you're wearing right now, be my guest! And the dining room, where I'm pretty sure your mentors are, is over there-" an equally exaggerated gesture, this time in the opposite direction, "-but ah-ah-ah, no eating 'til lunch! Which _should_ be-" he checks a non-existent wristwatch, "-in about two hours! See you then!"

With that, he's off, prancing into the next car without another word.

My district partner and I share a glance in which all our hatred for Gallus and his complete disregard for our plight is expressed. Then the boy shrugs and slouches off in the direction of the bedrooms. After a few moments of sitting on the chair hugging my knees, I follow him.

The girl's bedroom is in the caboose and bounces gently with the swift movement of the train. Its soft grey walls form a refuge which has undoubtedly concealed the tears of countless District Three girls over the past fifty years. Yet this day's events have numbed my stormy ocean of grief into a stagnant pool. Too despondent to cry, I collapse onto the window seat and watch the last wisps of factory smoke disappear over the horizon forever. Rolling the names of previous female tributes over and over in my head, I wonder if I, like them, have just seen my home for the last time.

~~o~~

**I'd love to hear any feedback! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the horrendously late update! I meant it when I said I'm a really poor updater – I honestly don't have a clue how frequent they'll be. But thank you everyone for all the support, whether you read, reviewed, favorited, added to alerts, or just clicked on the link, and if you're still reading I hope you enjoy my next chapter! :)**

**It's a pretty long one, and I'm not sure of the quality since I was in a rush to finish it, but hopefully it's all right. **

**I'll be at camp all this week, so if I don't get back to your reviews for a while, that's why. **

~~0~~

Although an hour has elapsed by the time Gallus' screech signals the arrival of lunch, it may as well have been five minutes, for nothing has changed. Desolation still hangs over me like a grey mist. I don't even think I've moved from my huddled position on the windowsill. Only the way my muscles ache in protest of their disuse as I untangle myself reveals that any time has passed at all.

The smooth wooden door slides away at my touch, revealing our escort who, it seems, has been interrupted mid-knock. Taken by surprise, he freezes in an almost humorous pose, eyes and mouth forming wide O's with one fist raised, but shakes it off the next instant with an artificial laugh.

"You were taking so long, I almost thought you didn't hear me," he pouts. "Anyway, lunch is waiting in the dining car." Then, as if it's some trivial thing he's only just remembered, "Oh, and I assume your mentors will be there too."

He makes as if he's stepping back to let me past, but midway through this action halts, frowns, and blocks my way again. Beleaguered to the point of desperation by the day and its demands, it's all I can do not to surrender to tears. Instead, I push them back, just barely, to linger behind my despondency as Gallus scrutinizes me with narrowed eyes.

"You know," he begins, his overdramatic exasperation scratching at my patience, "you've got the whole world of fashion at your disposal in that wardrobe. Why not actually use it instead of coming out dressed in..." He waves a hand as if what I'm wearing defies words.

I glance down at my attire. It's true that I'm still wearing the drearily grey dress I was reaped in, but for reasons our escort will never understand, I've decided to do so for as long as possible. There's something in the unpretentious nature of the gown – the sombre shade of the material, the way it hangs loosely about my sides like a wrung cloth, the layer of soot ringing the hem – that seems like an inner reflection of me. Draped in it, I can't help but feel as removed as possible from the train's opulence and the sick purpose it tries to mask. And I'd like to keep it that way.

The illusion that I may still have some degree of control, however insignificant, over my life, is empowering. I'm not intending to let the Capitol change who I am in the arena, so why should I do so now? I can at least have the satisfaction of being myself until the stylists get their hands on me.

Perhaps if I shared my little sister's confidence, I'd be able to make my decision clear with a single glare in our escort's eye. As it is, the best I can do is drop my gaze to the carpet, allowing my silence to answer his question. Sensing he won't get the response he wants, Gallus gives a frustrated scoff.

"Well, whatever you do, change into something decent once we get to the Capitol. I don't want a soul to see one of my tributes looking like a street urchin." Without another word, he spins sharply on his heel and turns towards the door which I assume leads to my fellow tribute's quarters.

I'm proven correct. As I start along the narrow, richly-panelled corridor, there's a soft click behind me and Gallus' ear-splitting lament begins again. Glancing over my shoulder, I realize that the boy whose name still eludes me has also remained in his reaping clothes. Apparently the fact that both of us have ignored his wishes is unacceptable to our escort, for within moments his griping grows so hysterical as to be unendurable.

"I might not have been able to make that girl see sense, but believe me, you are not going to leave your room in those rags. To think, I've put up with this district for ten long years, and my own tributes don't even have the respect to dress like more than a pair of –"

"Alright, alright, I'm going."

With a mutter of compliance, the boy retreats into his room. Annoyed beyond belief by Gallus' selfishness and slightly guilty that my district partner had to suffer for my disobedience, I hurry from the scene.

The dining car waits beyond a set of crystalline windows so delicate I'm afraid that my touch will reduce them to shards. Brushing past them gingerly, I'm struck by the sensation that I've intruded into a bubble. The lavishly decked table seating our two mentors has been hung with a shroud-like silence. Beetee Joule's gaze flickers upwards almost imperceptibly at my arrival; Maybell Lectric acknowledges nothing but the amber liquid she's pouring down her throat. I hesitate on the threshold, afraid to step forwards for fear of shattering their privacy like the diamond glass behind me.

"Guess who's here!" Evidently Gallus has no such qualms as he bursts onto the scene. My district partner trails behind, appearing self-conscious in a garishly violet suit. The two of us are swept against each other as the escort bustles past to his seat, but either my attempt at a sympathetic smile is very forced or he's just unwilling to recognize his own presence in this horrid place – both of which are very possible – for the boy pointedly refrains from eye contact.

It doesn't matter anyway. The more I wonder what I would have said to him, the more grateful I am he didn't respond. What words could possibly alleviate the events of this day? I suppose I wanted to apologize for Gallus' rudeness, to explain that I'm sorry my disobedience diverted most of the man's displeasure onto the boy and led to him having to wear the Capitol clothes. Looking over it, however, that train of thought seems to imply that his choice of attire is to be frowned upon. Am I really so self-centered as to assume that everyone in the world views their reaping outfits with the same symbolism I do? Maybe he simply finds comfort in embracing this luxury before it is gone for good.

_Or maybe you're looking way too far into things, _I scold myself. I've found that's what happens when you have a hard time telling what others are thinking. You make it up. Guess, based off what you'd feel in that situation. And nine times out of ten, you've done nothing but overanalyze.

_Some help that's going to be in the arena, _whispers an unwelcome voice in the back of my mind, _with everybody hiding their own agendas, conspiring against you, planning how best to make your cannon sound..._

"You two! We're not going to wait all day!" This latest in Gallus' never-ending torrent of shrieks jolts me out of my reverie and compels us towards the table. I perch unwillingly on the unoccupied seat beside Maybell Lectric. A putrid stench envelops her like a cloak, whispering of alcohol and vomit.

"Now that we're all here," Gallus chimes in complete obliviousness to the awkwardness stifling the air, "Let's eat!"

The prelude to what appears to be the most magnificent feast I have ever seen in my life is borne in by a procession of crisply-uniformed waiters. Doubtful I'll be able to stomach too much thanks to the unease prickling at my innards, I nibble at a lush green salad while allowing my eyes to wander over my tablemates.

I repress a shudder at the sight of the dark-haired victor eating absorbedly across from me. Unbidden, the sound of his opponents' final screams is thrust to the forefront of my mind. _No, _I think sternly._ There's no time for that here. You have to ignore what they've done if you want their help. You have to forget that they're probably trying to make you exactly what they are..._

It's impossible to quell the dread that seeps through my chest with every glance at Beetee, so I clutch tighter to the thought of my sister's face and avert my eyes to the woman who will be my mentor. Another image emerges from my memory: a teenaged Maybell Lectric, hunched furtively over the alliance from 6, poisoning their rations as they slept unawares. It's only too easy to envision her doing the same to my own meal, as if still plotting the elimination of one more obstacle. Nevertheless, this murderer may be the difference between my life and my death in the arena, and for that reason alone I purge my expression of any flicker of disgust.

However, Maybell doesn't seem to be the slightest bit interested in me; oddly enough, she's eyeing my district partner with shrewd recognition.

"I r'member that 'un," she slurs in a deep voice befitting a woman of her girth. A finger is pointed accusatorily at the boy across from her. "Din't I see you at my door once, boy?"

He pales slightly and buries his face deeper into a chicken pot pie, clearly intimidated by the Victor of the 17th Hunger Games.

"Yup, that's 'im all 'ight," Maybell states decisively, as if she's used to people going along with what she says. "Useless good-for-nuthin'. You and your gang of vagabonds, always messin' aroun', ringin' people's doorbells, then runnin' away..." Her voice trails off as she squints harder at the unresponsive tribute, then glances blearily up again. "Wha's this un's name, eh? Boy, wha's your name?"

Her query is met with a dejected shrug from its topic, who is now engrossed with the edge of the tablecloth. Gallus diverts his attention away from a succulent cut of beef long enough to give a perkier but similar response. Maybell looks expectantly at Beetee, but the younger victor does not respond beyond a darkly irritated glare.

Indignation prickles through my heart, accompanied by a red flush of shame. Has no one had the decency to remember this boy's name? Can it be that even in District Three, the horror of the Games has become so commonplace that mentors view their own tributes as nothing more than faceless game pieces? I cannot pretend to have an excuse for forgetting, but neither can any of the others. _And you Victors claim to be the pride of the district. _

"Arkel." I'm startled by the sudden outburst, despite its quietness. So is my district partner, whose head jerks up at the sound of his apparent name. Gaze swivelling around the table, it takes me a moment to realize that the speaker was Beetee. Obviously disliking the attention, he mutters grudgingly, "Your name's Arkel, isn't it?"

Arkel nods slowly, face mirroring my surprise.

"That's what I thought." Beetee leaves it at that, drifting back into the safety of silence.

Maybell takes this as a cue to launch back into her half-drunken admonishments. "Well, then, Arkel, what d'you have to say for yourself?"

He shrugs again, his dull mutter barely loud enough to be heard over the faint clinking of cutlery. "I dunno ... it wasn't my idea. All the guys wanted to do it ... can't exactly say no..."

The woman's doughy face darkens, eyes narrowing into glassy slits. "'N other words, you're a spineless coward who can't think for 'imself."

Arkel makes no effort to correct this statement, miserable gaze dropping to the carpet as if agreeing with every word against him. Not for the first time in the past hour, I find myself desperately wishing for my sister's courage. The rush of pity I feel for my district partner, coupled with my increasing revulsion for those who instead of helping us are only trying to push us down further, is sharper and more tangible than any grief I've harboured for a past tribute, any long-smouldering rage against the Capitol. I want nothing more than to give our sole female Victor the scathing retort she deserves. Yet the person I have always been takes over, hushing my protests into bitter thoughts as I continue to pick distractedly at my meal.

After about twenty more minutes, it becomes clear that Maybell's and Arkel's exchange was the most conversation we can hope to get at the table. Both of our mentors remain staunchly close-mouthed, Maybell scrutinizing us with glassy black eyes, Beetee's gaze never leaving his plate. Arkel is little more than a shadow on the wall. The only person who seems unsatisfied with this is, predictably, our escort, but he gives up after his first dozen discussion-starters go ignored.

I'm relieved. Silence has always provide a refuge for me, and a time such as this is no exception. The unpleasant reminder that I'll have to connect with the mentors at one point in the near future if I want even a chance of fulfilling my promise to Talee crosses my mind several times during the trip. But the temptation of an escaping the present moment, even for only one more hour, even if the illusion shatters with every glance at my glowering mentor, is too great to resist.

So I let the temporary peace stretch on, bearing us closer and closer to our destination.

~~0~~

"Take a good look, kiddies!" Gallus screeches as the tunnel enveloping the train gives way to blinding light. "We're finally here!"

'Finally' is not the word I would have chosen to use in this situation. The three hours it has taken to complete the journey have flown. It's far too soon for my liking to leave this last safe haven for the cruel, uncertain future that awaits us. But when your escort seizes you by the arm and drags you over to the window for the benefit of the mindless, multicoloured masses awaiting your approach, there isn't much point in resisting.

"Now you stand there," the rooster-combed man instructs, steering me to the side by my scrawny shoulders, "and do _try _to look happy, for my sake at least. The initial presentation of the tributes is one of the most important moments for an escort. Doesn't make much of an impression if you're all down in the dumps, now does it?"

He grins nauseatingly before yanking my district partner towards the window and striking a ridiculous pose with him. They're almost directly blocking me from view, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that it's because I still haven't changed out of my less-than-stylish attire. I'm far from complaining, however. I've always detested the spotlight, and although I can't see Arkel's face from this angle, I have a strong hunch that it's crimson with humiliation.

After sufficiently annoying the both of us with his blatant narcissism for a while, Gallus finally turns away from the cheering crowds to "prepare himself" for the cameras – which, knowing him, means drenching himself in even more white make-up. In his absence I move forwards to get my first look at the Capitol, noting as I do so that I was right about the color of Arkel's skin. The teenage boy is squatted on the ground, grumbling as he picks at the buttons on his ridiculous purple outfit. I consider putting in a sympathetic word, but decide against it as I don't know whether it would seem rude coming from someone who has largely avoided being the victim of our escort's whims.

Instead, I turn my attention to the city spread out like a glittering jewelled blanket before me. The sight takes my breath away. I have seen pictures of the Capitol in the textbooks used to brainwash our district's youth with propaganda, but those were only black-and-white illustrations. It is a different matter entirely in reality. The sunlight casts a sheen over everything, painting a rainbow of brilliant hues over clear glass and smoothly paved roads. The people, if they can be called that, are like something out of a children's bedtime story, their appearance fantastic, their number staggering. The tallest buildings puncture the clouds themselves, making the largest factories of District 3 seem miniscule in comparison.

Yet despite its magnificence, I can't say it inspires or even awes me. The emotion that widens my eyes and gapes my jaw is not wonder, but acute awareness of my own vulnerability. Only by seeing the might of this colossal city, the indisputable power of this utopia built from the blood of yearly sacrifices, do I realize how insignificant my life is to them.

"It's so big," murmurs Arkel quietly.

I nod, sensing my own fear and vulnerability in those three simple words.

Finally tearing my gaze away from the window, I notice that Arkel has pulled something out of his pocket and is now clutching it tightly in his hand. Tilting my head curiously, I make out a dulled gray object. The boy catches me staring at it and opens his fist, revealing an inconspicuous metal screw.

"District token," he says with a hint of embarrassment, gaze focused on the floor. "I know it's pretty pathetic, but it's really the best I have. Never imagined myself getting chosen, so I didn't bother with one. Then I found this lying on the ground outside the Justice Building and thought, hey, it's better than nothing. At least it's a bit of home." He pauses, then adds as if trying to convince me to belittle it, "Stupid, huh?"

"I don't even have one," I admit. It amazes me, but in all the years I've spent dwelling on the Hunger Games I've never actually taken the precaution of finding myself a token in case I was reaped. I guess it's too late now. Just one of the many things I will never have the chance to do.

"You've got that," Arkel points out, gesturing at my dress. "You didn't change out of it. Why?"

The question pulls me up short. I'd been prepared to let the matter go after dwelling on it so much, convinced that no one would have bestowed upon the gown the same significance I did. But now, for whatever reason, Arkel seems to have taken an interest in it. I'm not sure how to respond. Does he just want a simple answer or is he looking for something deeper? The idea that someone in this wretched place might actually want to hear my inner thoughts is too inviting for me to go with the first option.

"I guess for the same reason you took the screw. It's home, isn't it? Plain, ordinary, familiar ... not like this." I gesture at the blur of color outside the window. "I didn't want to wear the Capitol clothes because they're not me. They're not who I am. And I'm not going to let go of that."

I bite my lip as Arkel doesn't respond beyond a nod, going back to fiddling with his token. Worry that I have insulted him by insinuating he somehow forsook himself by dressing differently prickles at my conscience. I try to read his expression for any trances of offense, but the only impression I get is that he's lost in thought.

My mind returns to the topic of district tokens. True, I have my dress, but it's obviously too big to bring into the arena. I'm not even sure the stylists will even let me keep it after the opening ceremonies. I suppose the tributes must get them back when – _if _– they come out of the arena, but in all honesty the chances of my doing so are so bleak that I refuse to dwell on the idea.

But ... I can't just leave it here. My sense of sentiment forbids it. The train is slowing down, Gallus throwing open the doors; I'll soon be swarmed by hundreds of reporters. The only way I can see myself surviving this is by having the dress on like a protective bubble. A guard against the superficiality and empty promises the Capitol is founded on. A reminder of who I am. I'm going to need that more than ever in the arena.

Kneeling down, I examine the bedraggled skirt of the dress. A few centimetres above the bottom, it has been tucked in and sewed so that it won't trail too much. I suppose it once belonged to someone taller than me. Probably mother.

With that thought in mind, I rip out a thin strip of fabric from the hem. Right where the cloth has been stitched up, protecting it from mud and soot, so that it's still pale white rather than grey. Tying this around my wrist, I take a deep breath and turn to face the cameras.

~~0~~

"I'm not going."

Huddling up tighter in the narrow crack between the bed and the floor, I direct this at Beetee, standing impatiently in my bedroom doorway. Someone – Gallus, I'd wager – has sent him in to convince me to watch the reaping recaps. Several hours have passed since we arrived at the Training Centre, and it's late enough in the day for even the District 12 tributes to be headed towards the Capitol. According to our mentors, it's about time we examined our competition. But I can't bear the thought of actually watching the other ceremonies, hearing the anthem played triumphantly over the muted sound of weeping parents as their children are dragged away. How am I supposed to view them as enemies when they are in exactly the same situation as me?

Beetee seizes me with his unblinking black eyes. As usual, it's impossible to fathom what's going through his mind. Does he despise me? Pity me? Does he even care at all? I look to the ground, but can't shake off the feeling of being trapped in his gaze.

Finally he speaks, voice spiked with a hint of irritation. "Fine, then. It's not my problem if you don't want to see your opponents." Shrugging, he turns back to join the others. "Just thought you might want an idea of what you're up against."

I watch him stalk back to the sitting room before following reluctantly. In spite of all my protests, I knew it would end up like this. I've been too beaten-down by the day's tribulations to keep up any form of resistance. And, despite how much I'm dreading the addition of sixteen new names to my mental memorial of fallen tributes, I can't say I'd feel comfortable with myself if I didn't know those going into the arena with me. Not as the competition, but as humans.

Arkel, Maybell and Gallus have taken their seats on the comfortable furniture clustered in the District 3 level sitting room. Beetee chooses a chair slightly off to one side, nodding with what might be approval as I trail in. No one else responds, other than Arkel, who shifts aside to make room for me on the couch. At that moment the floor-to-ceiling television bursts to life, assaulting my ears with the babbling of two luridly colored Capitol women.

"Yes, I'm quite excited to see the Careers as well," our escort pipes up, obviously in response to something said by the pink announcer whose hyperactive voice I can barely comprehend. "Bound to be some eager volunteers, after last year's twist."

It's true that the Careers this year must be more determined than ever. Something I've known for a while but which only strikes me as significant now that I'm here is the disproportionate amount of non-career victors in the past decade. The girl from eight and the boy from ten who won the 43rd and 45th. The Games sandwiched between them, which saw the young man from eleven lose his arm but win his life in the final gruesome battle. The marshy arena of the 49th, dominated by the District Six girl's agility, resourcefulness, and unforeseen skill with a harpoon. And, most shockingly of all, last year's Quarter Quell, in which Haymitch Abernathy defied all expectations by bringing home the crown to District 12 for the second time in history. I never thought about it, but it makes sense that this string of 'lesser' victories would have been the equivalent of a slap in the face to those districts who play by the Capitol's rules.

The announcers' inane chatter finally finishes with an elated, "And now, your tributes!" and I turn to watch the moments condemning twenty-two more children to their probable deaths.

For all his shortcomings, Gallus was not mistaken about this year's Careers. If anything, he's underestimated the enthusiasm with which they throw away their lives. The District 1 mayor has barely finished talking when the stampede of potential tributes begins, the boy and girl in the lead seizing their escort's hands in triumph. The procedure in District 2 is far more orderly, and if it weren't for the flicker of surprise across the male tribute's face – quelled immediately by a harsh look from his partner – I would have guessed the entire thing was prearranged.

I can't make sense of what I feel during the first two reapings. Certainly not pity. Searching myself for some faint thread of emotion, I find nothing, no stirring of sympathy for those so willing to be game pieces. As for fear? Perhaps earlier in the day I might have possessed the sense to be afraid of the boy from 1's formidable musculature, the agile grace of his feminine counterpart, the husky builds of both from 2. But the wearying hours since I was reaped have dulled my dread into a stupor. I can barely process the fact that my name may end up on any one of their kill lists in a matter of days. The strongest impression I'm left with as the District 2 girl's intense glare fades from the screen is that if these people have any doubt that they will be the one to wear the Victor's crown, they don't show it.

Despite knowing what comes next, I'm not prepared for the sight of my home district spread across the huge screen. The breath is torn from my body as sharply as if I've been punched in the stomach. The crowds, the square, the familiar shapes of houses and school and factories ... viewed from my current situation, it all takes on a quality similar to that of a picture in a beloved childhood storybook. Even the ever-present shades of soot and smoke are soothing in comparison to the gaudy colors now surrounding me.

All of a sudden my lungs seem to be compressing in on themselves, and it's nearly impossible to breathe as a crushing sadness takes over. The realization comes again and again, each blow more painful than the last. _It's all gone. I'm never going to see any of it again. _

"Wiress?" The voice is so quiet, or maybe my mind's so far away, that I don't notice it at first. Finding this last glimpse of home to be almost hypnotic, I force myself to turn away from the screen. It's Arkel speaking, and he looks as surprised as I when our eyes meet. As if of the same mind, we both shift our gazes elsewhere. "Is – I mean – are you okay?"

He knows the answer. We both do. But despite the almost offensive needlessness of the question, I can't help but think that I'd probably have asked it in the same way. What's more, I feel so starved for kindness at the moment that any outstretched hand is one I'd gratefully take.

"No," I reply simply. "I'm not." It's stupid and obvious and I wish I could think of more to say, but I'm not going to go any deeper in present company. They don't want to hear my thoughts. They don't deserve to.

"Yeah," puts in Arkel pointlessly, "Same here."

Somehow, I'm grateful for his words. Despite their awkwardness, they're probably the most truthful things I've heard since leaving the Justice Building this morning. And maybe it's that which keeps me from crying as the events which feel an eon ago unfold once more before my eyes.

"Arkel Schmidt!" is called, and the boy beside me winces. Somehow I don't equate the figure emerging from the fifteens' section on-screen with the living, breathing human being beside me. It's almost as if my mind is making one last, desperate attempt to shield me from reality, to convince me this is all a nightmare. Then they call "Wiress Bentell!" and there's no more musing. There's just the darkness of tightly closed eyes, the tang of blood as my teeth clench down upon my lower lip, and the violent trembling wracking my body.

I wait a while before daring to look again, but when I do, I know immediately it's too soon. The Wiress on-screen trips over her hem, stumbling pathetically to the ground, only to be caught by Beetee. What I'd meant at the time to be a grateful smile on my part comes off as a forced twitch of the lips. I sneak a glance at the mentor seated off to the side, but his expression is as unreadable as it was back then. He catches me watching him and returns his gaze abruptly to the screen. Fruitlessly, I try to draw up a comparison between this cold, unapproachable man and the one who for, whatever reason, saw fit to go out of his way to help me. Doing so is like plugging a cord into a mismatched socket. Impossible.

_He was the only one to remember Arkel's name, _a quiet voice reminds me.

_True, _I argue back, _but I didn't see _him_ comfort us just now. He didn't even try. _

By the time I've managed to push Beetee to the back of my mind, the cobblestones and smokestacks of home have been replaced by smoothly paved streets and a shimmering stretch of ocean. District 4. The tributes here are even more fearsome than the careers from 1 and 2, but this reaping serves as the calm in the storm. Here are two more faces I feel no urge to memorialize. Two deaths which, should I survive, will not haunt me. I fill the five minutes it takes them to reach the stage with slow, calming breaths. The next eight districts will not be this easy to watch.

My forebodings are right. As the same scene is repeated time and time again across the country, its sheer horror builds to the point that I grow numb. Things which only this morning filled me with fear become deceptively, mockingly simple – the recitation of the Treaty, the reading of slips, the handshakes. I'm stunned by how such redundant actions can hold such indescribable agony for so many people.

District by district goes by, the names of the doomed swirling around in a seemingly endless black whirlwind. Brant, Ciara, Agni. Some stand out more than others. Daken, a short fourteen-year old whose younger brothers rush from the sidelines to cling to him as he walks to the stage. Dimity from 8, who dissolves into tears the second her name is called. Imana, Rayen, Adam. The well-built pair from 10, Orford and Terra, holding their heads high as I could not. Fidda, Kobal, Bluma. The more I try to remember, the fewer remain in my memory.

"Look at that," mutters Maybell distastefully as the final tribute – an emaciated boy from 12 who appears barely older than his district's number yet stares down the camera despite his evident fear – gives his district partner a firm handshake. "Kid 'asn't a chance. 'E'll be the first to go, you mark my words."

"Why?" My voice comes out a defeated croak. The parade of children being marched to their deaths while Capitol announcers keep up a bubbly commentary is making me sick to my stomach. I can't figure out why I haven't left yet, though it's probably fear of being violently ill should I move.

My mentor glances at me shrewdly, though I'm beyond caring enough to wonder why, and then nods knowingly at the screen. The dilapidated square of the coal district has been replaced by the Capitol women in their studio. "_That's _why."

"And that's all from District 12, where our final lucky tributes have just been chosen!" squeals the pink one with sickening excitement, sending a tremor of revulsion along my spine. "I'm sure we're all wondering the same thing – will they give us a repeat of last year's shock victory?"

"What do you think, viewers?" trills her aquamarine co-host as she playfully snatches the microphone from the other's hands. "Does Jash Tretton have what it takes to become the next Haymitch Abernathy? Be sure to cast your vote in tomorrow's poll!"

"Well, Anthea, all I'm sure of is that this little boy is sure to have some big surprises in store for us!" finishes the first to speak. "Now, over to Claudius Templesmith for some juicy pre-Games-"

I'm overcome with relief as Maybell flicks off the television. Just a few more seconds of that drivel would have threatened to boil my disgust into rage. And although I would love to reveal to the Capitol everything I feel about the triviality with which it treats children's lives, there is no place more unsafe to do so than my present location. Settling for releasing it all through a long, steady exhale rather than a tirade, I pull my knees close and drop my face into my hands.

"'Appens every time there's an unexpected victory," comes Maybell's low rumble. "Next tributes from the winner's district're guaranteed a lotta publicity in the Capitol, at least 'til the training scores're revealed and they figure out if the poor saps were worth their time or not." Her voice changes slightly. "Guarantees 'em something else as well. Any guesses what?"

The silence following her question makes me wonder if she expects me or my district partner to answer. I look up to realize that neither of us is the recipient of her narrowed glare.

The one who is leaps to his feet with an involuntary speed I have never witnessed outside of the Games. A small table which happened to be in his way crashes to the ground, yet no one spares it a glance.

Written across the face of the most recent District 3 Victor is nothing less than extreme loathing. It's the most intense emotion I've ever seen him – or perhaps anyone – display, and its appearance is so shocking that for a fraction of a second my common sense departs and I'm no longer Wiress but his final opponent in the arena and whatever he did to win, he's going to do it to me and –

"The attention of the Careers," Beetee reveals darkly. His voice is laced with the bitterness still blazing on his face, but it's muted and much closer to his usual unfeeling tone than the wild fury I'd been anticipating. Once again, his eyes return to focusing on everything but our own, as if trying to deny that his near loss of control just occurred. "Become too interesting to the Capitol and you're inevitably diverting the spotlight away from them. That's akin to a death wish. Particularly with this year's batch already biased against 12 for their triumph in the Quell. That boy won't live to see the first night's death toll."

With a finality that proves his involvement in this conversation is over, he retreats into an adjacent room. The door slams hard enough to shatter a picture hanging on the wall and send Gallus into a bout of hysteria over priceless antiques and district barbarism and how much he's going to have to pay for it.

It's only as my pounding heartbeat begins to settle that I realize how fast it was.

I have just seen another side of the enigma that is Beetee Joule. A side that is not cold, nor aloof, but fiery, furious, unforgiving. Whatever Maybell's words did to offend him, he responded to them with a shadow of the primal rage that is a player in every Games. A rage that has driven spears through tributes' hearts, smashed rocks against their skulls, smiled in triumph as victims take their final ragged breaths. I'm struck by the alarming idea that I may be one of the only people to see what the runners-up of the 39th Hunger Games did and still be breathing.

And I wonder if, by the time Panem's next Victor is crowned, I will have seen that look upon my killer's face as my cannon blows, or worse still, worn it upon my own.

~~0~~

**For anyone who's curious, the victors mentioned by Wiress during her recollections of recent games are, respectively: Veta from Number One Fan of Journey's **_**Brutal, **_**Amer from Number One Fan of Journey's **_**Horrible, **_**Chaff, and the female morphling. Katniss says in Catching Fire that Chaff won "thirty years ago," but in order not to have that conflict with my head-canon, I figured she might have been estimating, and put him down as winning the 44****th****. One year's difference probably didn't mean that much to her anyway. **

**Comments? Questions? Polite constructive criticism? I'd love to hear it! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry once again for the late update! A huge thanks goes out to all of my wonderful readers, reviewers, and all those who added this to their favorites and to story alerts. Really, I wouldn't be writing if it wasn't for your support. And a special mention goes to Caisha702, who helped me by Beta-Reading this chapter and giving me that burst of confidence I needed to post. Thanks a bunch, everyone!**

**I apologize to those of you who said they wanted more of Beetee and Arkel ... there's a little bit of them in this chapter but I had to introduce a new character. More of them will come in chapter 5, I promise!**

**Finally, there's a teensy bit of swearing near the end – I don't swear in real life and I don't encourage swearing, but I felt it was necessary for the mood. **

~~0~~

The hardest part of the following morning is waking up to velvety quilts rather than the tattered blankets I've grown accustomed to over my seventeen years. This realization gives way to a quick succession of others. The dark shapes on the shadowy wall are not my life's worth of science projects but some valueless Capitol decorations. It's Gallus' laughter, not Talee's, that bubbles from the adjacent room. This isn't my bed. This isn't my house.

I'm not home.

With this knowledge in mind, I bury myself in the alien bedding and allow my tears to drown the first few hours of the day.

~~0~~

"Well, here you are, girlie. I'll be watching the parade tonight! Ta-ta!"

With this, our escort shuts the door and retreats down the long white hallway connecting the sitting room to the chamber in which I'm to meet my prep team and stylist. So far the day has been uneventful, which is just as well, for I'm not sure I'd be able to handle any scenes like that last night. Beetee has not appeared at all, presumably taking breakfast in his personal quarters, and aside from the usual awkward silence, nothing went wrong at the table while Maybell, Arkel and I ate.

Gallus' footsteps have barely begun to fade when I'm startled by the abrupt arrival of three beings so fantastic, so surreal, it's as if I'm still lost in a dream. The trio of what can be described only by the loosest terms as women descend on me in a whirlwind of color. Though I'm disorientated by the vibrancy of their clothes and dyed skin, a few obvious details strike me at once: the way all their faces have been stretched back so tautly that their amethyst eyes appear to bulge, how the silver tresses of the tallest member have been woven upwards around a harp seated atop her head, and, most unmistakeably, the artificial quills protruding from the plump face of the shortest. Their names are easier to miss, spurted out amidst a rush of laughter and too long to remember once they have passed.

It takes them so long to finish their excited chatter that I can't help but wonder whether they're my prep team at all or if they've just come to get a good look at the tributes before tonight's debut. My doubts are dismissed once the spined one approaches me with her hands extended, and I instinctively shrink back, self-conscious.

Apparently this warrants another peal of hysterical tittering from the group. "Come on now, dearie," giggles the third woman, whose entire body is dappled in splotches of scarlet and teal, "How do you think you're going to get all fancied up if you don't take off your dress first? You don't want the nation to see you in what you're wearing now, do you?"

I shake my head stupidly, whether in response to her question or as a general gesture of disapproval I don't know. I'm painfully aware of how foolish I'm being – if Talee could see this, she would certainly be cursing my unwillingness to cooperate with the people who could hold the key to my survival – but I can't do it. It's not just that I don't want them to see me naked. The thought of stripping away my last defence, my sole reminder of who I am and plan to continue being, is what terrifies me.

The three continue to advance as I realize I've backed myself into a wall. Still silent, still vehemently expressing my refusal, I raise my hands across my chest defensively. The tall woman with the harp hair reaches to prise them away, nearly misty-eyed with mirth.

"Don't be silly, girl, we're just going to get you dressed up!" she coos as if to one incapable of basic thought. "You're going to ride in a parade, won't that be fun?"

"And, oh, don't forget about the sponsors!" trills the short one. "You'll get to see if people want to send you presents or not! But they'll only want to if we help you first, 'kay?"

She's right. For all they have done to make a bad impression within the first few minutes of my knowing them, they're all completely right. If I want to survive by hiding then I'll need enough donations to sustain me throughout the Games, and for that, appealing to the sponsors is imperative. It won't be my training score and it certainly won't be my kill list that attracts their attention. Frankly, it is unlikely that my looks will either, but if I don't start somewhere I'll never be able to keep both my promises. Yet despite all this, I'm convinced that if I let go even for a second of my dress, these erratic creatures will snatch it away where I'll never see it again. Just like everything else the Capitol has stolen from me.

"If I take it off..." I start hesitantly, not even sure I have their attention, "If I take it off, will you let me keep it? Can you just let me put it..." my eyes scan the pristine room before coming to rest on a side table, "over there? Please?"

"It's got to come off, girl," is all I get as a response.

"It will," I plead, "Just don't throw it away. Keep it on that table. At least until I'm dressed for the parade. Then I'll..." Unsure of what control I'll have over my possessions when I'm at the will of the stylist, I trail off. To placate the agitated prep team, I begin unbuttoning the gown down its back. "I'll decide what to do with it then."

"If ... you're sure," replies the harp-haired woman uncertainly, before lapsing back into disbelieving laughter with her companions.

I can't tell if it's intended to be malicious, but something about their amusement stings. I've never been one to understand what people are thinking and it's even more impossible to tell with these eccentric individuals, but if I could guess, I'd think that my sense of sentimentality is not only incomprehensible but utterly ridiculous to them. The recollection that they were laughing long before I refused to take off my dress does little to reassure me, only perplexes my thoughts further. What could possibly be funny at all in this situation? What about children being prepared for slaughter requires this incessant, infuriating stream of laughter?

Gritting my teeth and forcing – with some effort – the complex world of Capitolian behaviour to the back of my mind, I roll the loose, worn material of my dress into a ball and cross the room to place it on the table. Although the distance is really quite short, every minute of nudity seems to stretch on forever. After a moment of consideration, I slip off the narrow band of fabric I'd been using as my district token and swiftly stuff it down one of the gown's sleeves. I doubt stylists permit their tributes to wear any personal trinkets on the chariots and there's no telling how they'd react if they found me reluctant to part with a shred of cloth as well. Reassuring myself that I won't leave this room without doing all I can to ensure the dress' safety, I back away from my treasures into several of the most humiliating hours of my life.

It appears that working me up to a level where I might have a hope of gaining the sponsors' attention is even more of a challenge than I'd imagined. I've never assumed my pallid complexion and stringy dark hair were much in the way of beauty, but if the length of time I spend being made up is anything to go by, I have been giving myself far too much credit. After being completely deprived of body hair, I'm subjected to several layers of shampoo. First comes some sort of runny golden oil which removes enough soot to carpet the town square several times over. The next concoction is clear but seeps painfully through my pores like a tunnelling, biting worm. A pastel green foam adds an unexpected bit of pleasure to my morning with its flowery scent. I lose track of the amount of baths they subject me to, which is likely more than I'd have in a normal month. It's only from the wall clock which constantly steals my attention that I figure out less than two hours have passed – I would have guessed far more.

"There you go! All done!" announces the mottled woman finally, removing a hair clip in one deft motion to release my sodden black curtain. Spine-cheek holds out a towel which I seize and wrap about my scrawny form, thankful for even the slight warmth and cover.

"Does that mean I can go?" I dare to ask. For all I thought I knew about the Games, I've come to realize exactly how little I know about procedure here. Maybe the tributes are allowed to change for a lunch break before the stylists do their work? On second thought, given the prospect of another hour with Beetee, Maybell and Gallus, perhaps this is preferable.

Predictably, my words are met with more hysterics. "Of course not, dear! It means you get to meet Fabriola!"

As if on cue, the door swings open to admit a fourth woman. With her arrival the atmosphere seems to cool dramatically; I find myself drawing the towel ever closer. Even if she didn't create an immediate contrast from my prep team with her slate-grey skin, heavily lidded eyes and practical knot of curled heliotrope hair, the way this stocky female strides slowly but purposefully into the room would still leave me feeling that she commands respect from all beneath her.

"Oh, Fabriola!" gushes harp-hair. "You're here! Oh, what a morning! I don't think we've ever had a sillier tribute!" She turns to her spiked comrade and repeats the question almost indignantly. "I don't think we've _ever_ had a sillier tribute, do you, Iphigeneia? At least not since that crying girl, you know, the one who –"

"That will do, Polyhymnia," states the newcomer firmly but not unkindly. "I see you have done a commendable job despite whatever troubles you may have had with her. Well done."

The trio takes this as their signal to scuttle excitedly away. I exhale with relief, noting that they leave the wadded-up bundle of my reaping dress on its table. Fabriola closes the door firmly behind them before turning to survey me with sharp eyes.

She doesn't speak as she circles my body, gesturing for me to remove my towel. Grudgingly I let the comforting white fabric slide to the floor. Beyond the occasional mutter as she pokes me in the arm or runs a strand of dripping hair between her fingers, her evaluation of the prep team's work is conducted beneath an icy, pressing silence. Once or twice I find myself opening my mouth to speak, but, uncertain of what to say, I let the possibility of conversation fade.

Eventually she steps back with a deep sigh and folds her arms.

"Well, let's get this out of the way," she begins bluntly. "You're not the worst-looking tribute I've seen but you're far from the best. The prep team have done all they could and you should be grateful for it. We'll work with what we've got."

As much as I'd expected them, her words still have the impact of a stone hurled through a glass window. Somewhere beneath my disappointment, alarm yanks at my heart. The chariot rides were one of the few non-combative opportunities I had to earn the sponsorship I so desperately need, and with Fabriola's assessment, I feel the possibility of returning home to dad and Talee flying out of reach.

"You don't think I have a chance at all?" I venture, crestfallen.

One of the violet plumes that masquerades as Fabriola's eyebrows rises expressively. "I didn't say that, now, did I?"

"But it sounded like-"

"You're jumping to conclusions, Wiress." Fabriola cuts across my protests with a dismissive curtness. "I was merely giving my opinion as to how you will perform in the chariots tonight. I know virtually nothing about your proficiency in combat, wilderness skills or any other assets that may help you in the arena. My job is to prepare you visually, nothing more, nothing less. It is your mentor and the Gamemakers who will provide the final verdict on the likelihood of your victory. And even then, the one ultimately responsible for your survival is you." She pauses for a moment, then adds, "Though your willingness to believe so readily in my lack of faith reflects more about you than it does myself."

"What do you mean?"

Fabriola's piercing gaze doesn't falter for an instant as she speaks. "I mean that you must have very little confidence in yourself to take a stylist's words as the be-all-and-end-all. If there's anyone who thinks you don't have a chance, it's you."

I don't know what to say. Her assessment is so mercilessly correct, fitting perfectly into all the little nooks and crannies of my doubt and despair, that the possibility of my death has just hardened into a certainty. How can she possibly tell me to have confidence in myself? Does she not understand what it meant when my name was pulled from the reaping ball? Doesn't she know what I'm up against; how little I have going my way; how my only chance of survival rests solely on the support of others?

Fabriola clucks her tongue. "You may not like to hear it, but it's what I believe in, girl. Brutal honesty. False enthusiasm and meaningless consolation never got a tribute anywhere but dead at the bloodbath." Without permitting time for a response, she bustles off to a set of drawers and pulls out a tape measure, notebook and several folded sheets of filmy paper covered in outlines and markings.

"Your height is unsatisfactory," she muses, frowning as she scribbles down a number, "but we'll make some adjustments to your heels and it shouldn't be a problem. In fact, the shape of the dress and your hairstyle may even make you appear taller." Another disapproving noise escapes her lips at the sight of my chest measurement. "We'll have to tighten it a little ... but no matter. Your hair color and skin tone are close to what I've got in mind so we may not have to use too much make-up, and you're slender enough to pull it off quite well. I don't promise any miracles, honey, but by Snow, we'll have a few heads turn or die trying."

I try not to dwell on the fact that, if this fails, the latter option may well become reality.

~~0~~

As the hours go by, Fabriola's brainchild gradually transforms itself from a heap of thick grey fabric into the creation I am to present myself to the Capitol in. To begin with, my hair is swept up atop my head and sculpted meticulously into a column of wispy black clouds. Following this, a large conical framework is rolled out of a closet and stood on its end. Fabriola motions for me to lift my arms up and begins fastening it around my body rather like a crinoline.

"I get it," I murmur to myself, piecing together what I know of our district's industry and what has been hinted about the shape and style of the costume. "I'm a smokestack."

I look to Fabriola for confirmation, but she's busy tightening the rim of the structure around my chest. "That's the stack," I press on, "and my hair is the smoke coming out. And _those-_" I point to the fabric squares neatly piled on a nearby table, "-are some sort of covering for it. They're supposed to represent concrete. Right?"

Fabriola glances up from her work to fix me with a firm gaze. I can't fathom what emotion lurks within her intense dark eyes, but the tone of her voice suggests approval, lifting my spirits slightly.

"Correct," she pronounces. "You can see the whole picture. I like that."

"I guess it's from working in the factories," I reply. Usually being the recipient of compliments causes me to avert my glance to the floor in embarrassment, and even now I can't help the blush rising in my cheeks, but the faint idea that this Capitolian might see something in me other than inferiority leaves me unable to keep my mouth shut. "You're situated at your own little post, winding the strands together into wires as they come gliding along, and then you have to loop them over different pulleys or feed them into different machines depending on what station they're headed to." I find I'm speaking very quickly, willing my tongue not to slip up, fearing she'll dismiss my ramblings as tedious district talk. "It's important to know what leads where – for example, um, the triple copper wires get linked to a machine in the upper right hand corner of my workstation, and that sends them across the room where they're wound up into coils. And the thick black ones get fed into a tube that takes them to be put into televisions and things. Make one little mistake and the whole system could get tangled up."

My stylist nods and begins covering the crinoline with tiles of grey cloth, her focused expression betraying neither boredom with nor interest in my story. "And how do you memorize all this?"

I'm unsure of where this is going, but can't see any reason not to answer honestly. "On your first day the overseer gives you a tour and expects you to memorize it all, no matter how young you are." I cringe at the memory of how a slip of my inexperienced eight-year-old fingers was met with a slap across the face. "Nobody can remember everything he says, of course, so you figure out your own way to keep it all in mind. Since only the senior staff are permitted on the ground floor, we have to put our lunches and coats on the second level and then come down into the main room by a staircase. There's a little balcony up top, and every day I'd wait a few minutes to get a good, long look at all the machines spread out below me. Once I could visualize it all in my mind, I had it set. Occasionally the Capitol would update our technology and add new machines, or remove old ones, or switch some around, but by that point I was able to figure out what it'd look like from above, even when I was down within it. I'd draw maps from memory for the other workers to hang up, but they usually got torn down for 'cluttering up the workspace.'"

I pause there. I'm consumed by an urge to tell her more – how I've seen workers whipped and beaten almost to death for inconsequential blunders, how entire families are sent home without pay on days when the machines break down, how three of the girls on my floor passed through this very room and are now buried in the section of the cemetery allotted for our tributes. I want to see a ripple of unease distort her stony features, want her to be shaken for just one moment by the realization of what goes on beyond her comfortable Capitol life.

I want to, but I don't. Even if I could bring myself to force the anger out of my mind and into the world as words, this room is certainly bugged. And just expressing dissatisfaction with the Capitol's cruelties is enough to get branded as treason in the President's twisted mind. Hating my silence, I conclude rather lamely,

"So, I guess that helped me get a good grasp of the big picture. Seeing it all from above, then noticing the little bits and how they fit in, then being able to reverse the two steps ... yeah."

"You think of yourself as hopeless – and don't contradict me," Fabriola cuts me off sharply as I begin a weak protest "– because I can tell what you feel and it's exactly how I say. Yet you've failed to recognize one of your greatest assets. The ability you've just explained to me could be immensely advantageous in the Games. A good mental image of the arena is crucial to avoiding danger and finding shelter, and your ability to see the forest for the trees may prove invaluable when attempting to predict the other tributes' strategies."

There it is again; the assumption that it's all down to me. Fabriola must be either insane or stupid – or both – to believe that intelligence stands a chance against pure strength and skill. Just because I know which machine links to which doesn't mean I can untangle the complex threads of an alliance's secret motives. Nor will knowledge of the arena's safe spots shield me from a sword. The deeper I delve into it, the more oppressive this truth becomes.

I attempt to calm down by focusing instead on the slate-grey fabric enveloping the framework in the guise of a conical skirt. Preventing my mind from drifting off into unsavoury waters proves to be in vain. _Am I so insignificant in these Capitolians' eyes that they're willing to dump the responsibility of my survival solely on my shoulders rather than accepting it for themselves?_ I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I realize that Fabriola's interest in my district's occupation briefly lured me into viewing her as almost an ally of sorts. I can't let myself forget that, despite technically being on my side, she has still signed up to be a part of the Games. She's still preparing me for death.

~~0~~

"All done, girl. You may open your eyes now."

I do, and feel my breath catch in my throat. The Wiress ogling at me from the floor-to-ceiling mirror that takes up an entire wall of the prep room cannot be described as beautiful, but there is indisputably a certain grace to her – me – that I never knew I possessed. As Fabriola had said before, the length of the costume - which has been enshrouded in delicate cloth rippling like molten silver from my chest to my feet – seems to exaggerate my height rather than draw attention to my lack thereof. This, combined with the ethereal white glow of a minimal layer of makeup, the dusting of ebony powder over my hair, and the striking dark liner enhancing my eyelashes, create an unexpected effect. Whereas on the reaping recaps I appeared very much a young, defenceless girl, I wouldn't blame anyone for thinking the person before me is two or three years older than I actually am. While I'm not sure how many Capitolians, with their love for flashy color and fussy detail and little else, will be impressed by the smokestack costume amidst the grandeur of the careers, I have to admit its simplicity sets me apart. I am serene, mature, distant. Exactly how I want to be.

"Yes, I thought we'd go for the aloof angle," Fabriola says, evidently approving of my reaction. "Very mysterious, you see? The perfect way to contradict how you've presented yourself thus far. It'll give the Capitolians something to think about. Is your vulnerability an act? Do you have something up your sleeve? However it may turn out, they won't just dismiss you as just another weakling right from the get-go, at least."

"Thank you," I breathe, finding my voice. While the icy wall I've propped up to distance myself emotionally from my stylist remains unyielding, I am grateful for the advantage she's given me. I will be able to hold my head high in the assurance that at least someone may be inspired to help me return to Dad and Talee, and if nothing else, it will help me remember who I am.

"Well, let's not stand here waiting." An impatient clap of her hands sends me over to the doorway. Beyond it excited voices, presumably those of prep teams, can be heard murmuring in anticipation. The nearness of the Games' opening ceremony strikes me like electricity; I'm suddenly very aware of how unsteady I am on my high heels. Nearly stumbling, I grip the door handle for balance and suddenly remember the gray bundle discarded on the table.

"Fabriola?" I ask. I'm not entirely willing to place my last reminder of home in her hands, but at this point it may be all I can do. "I left my reaping dress and my district token over on that table. They – they mean a lot to me." I decide I can bypass the symbolism which will obviously not appeal to her. "Would you – I'm not sure what happens to the tributes' clothes after the chariot rides, but do you think you could make sure nothing happens to them? Just ... give them back to my mentors, or something? Please?"

She glances hurriedly from the table to the door and what may be the first bit of warmth I've ever seen her express momentarily softens her eyes. "I will do my best. Now, for Panem's sake, get out there! The show's about to start!"

~~0~~

I step into the hallway and am immediately greeted by a tall green man who must be Arkel's stylist but more closely resembles a limp stalk of asparagus than a human being. Catching a glimpse of Fabriola striding towards the sitting room with my dress, I allow him to whisk me off to the elevator. The glass cylinder is roomy, but an unnerving sense of claustrophobia mingles with my anxiety as the door glide shut. Encased within the cloying scent of perfume and shampoo, we descend.

Unable to bear the tension mounting with every second, I glance over at my district partner. Apparently both stylists have gone for the same theme. Most of his body is contained in a boxy costume whose straight angles and coating of grey paint call to mind the factories that dominate our hometown's horizon. Only his legs, arms and face emerge, the latter wearing its usual self-conscious grimace beneath hair spiked to stand on end.

"Hey," he says.

I reply in kind. For whatever reason, the uncomfortable bareness of my shoulders is thrust to the forefront of my mind and I find myself subconsciously attempting to pull the neckline higher than its position around my chest. It's not that I find him attractive – I've honestly never had time for nor interest in boys – and even if I did, I can't imagine a worse place for romance than here and now. Searching myself, I realize it's the fact that this is the first time I have ever been dressed up around a member of the opposite gender that sends the blood shooting to my face.

The ride to the lowest level likely takes less than five minutes, but each one seems an eternity. Our nervousness is palpable, thickening the air like a cloud of dense smoke. Even if either of us could find our voices, further discussion would be unnecessary. Just like on the train ride, there's nothing we can say to improve the situation, and discussing our feelings is pointless as I'm sure we both know the other's emotions are no different from our own. Fear. Dread. Hope that whatever unfolds on this day may help us live to see others.

The doors finally recede to reveal a vast room. Twelve extravagant chariots, most already occupied by tributes, are lined expectantly before a set of immense doors. My view of them is suddenly blocked by a stylist who emerges from an adjacent lift and bolts towards the far wall. Along with most of those assembled, my eyes follow his path to the girl I believe is from District 8, sobbing inconsolably as the boy from 10 beckons the newcomer over.

"You're her stylist?" he prompts. His voice is sturdy as sun-baked earth, but with a gentleness to it. "Poor thing's in a state. District 4 doesn't have as much confidence as he'd like so he decided to take it out on her. I thought you'd want to retouch her costume in time for the show."

The Eight's stylist attempts to drown out both this and his tribute's wails by griping over her smudged make-up. The sight of the girl crying awakens a sharp memory from the reaping recaps. I single out her face from the many I saw ascend to the stage. _Dimity, was it? _Yes, that's right. In tears the moment her name was called. Dressed now in a white gown blossoming with red frills and ribbons. Probably thirteen; no more than fourteen. A lamb to the slaughter.

I'm struck with the vague idea of consoling her, but Fabriola materializes at that moment and marshals our group away while throwing the briefest contemptuous glance at the pathetic sight. I peek over my shoulder, unsure of whether it's pity for the girl or revulsion at the cause of her grief that renders me incapable of looking away. The well-built young man from 10 – Orford, I think – seemingly decides he's helped enough and departs for his own chariot. As he does so, one of his hands reaches behind Dimity's back and gives her a comforting pat. His district partner scrutinizes him disapprovingly, but he merely shrugs and turns his attention towards the doors. Something warm that might be admiration rises, flame-like, inside of me.

"Up you go, girl," Fabriola orders, jabbing a plump arm at our chariot. I grip the handrails and begin to clamber up. My stylist holds out a steadying hand the one time I slip but assists no further. Arkel comes next, his cumbersome outfit making the climb awkward. I press against the smooth metal side to make room for his costume and have to crane my neck to make out the top of Fabriola's head.

"It's your show from here," she says firmly. "We've done all we can to help you but our work is only half of what the Capitol will be evaluating tonight. The rest is up to you. Remember, Wiress: calm, elegant, detached. Make them want to learn more and they will."

A moment's pause, then, "You're expecting me to say good luck. I won't. Luck never won the Games. Instead, do well." There's the sound of a high-heel scraping against concrete and her woolly purple head bobs away.

"Smile for the crowd and they'll love you!" Arkel's stylist bursts out before prancing off.

A hailstorm of drumbeats rips through the ubiquitous background chatter like gunfire, startling me off my feet. This unexpected blast of noise gives way to the slow, doom-laden anthem; as if compelled by the terrible force of the music, the doors begin to open ominously. A sharp, anticipatory silence purges the room of conversation, clearing the air so that the eagerness of the waiting crowd seems to double in volume.

Something squirms sickeningly inside me. My mind, suddenly blank and empty, scrambles to retrieve Fabriola's instructions. I straighten my back and lift my head as high as shyness will permit me. Hopefully it's enough. _Please, let it be enough. Let one of them want to help me home so I won't have to do it myself..._

A lurch. I totter forwards, barely managing to steady myself against the rail. We're off, the four coal-black horses which draw our chariot prancing after the backs of District 2. The intimidating shield of the training centre walls gives way to a world I'm not prepared for. A wave of sound slams us at once, the roars and cheers twisting together in a frenetic howl. Neon lights blaze to life against the bleeding sunset, their intensity putting any bulb I've constructed in our home district to shame. The blood-crazed masses themselves engulf the streets in a multicoloured river, bedecked with banners and frosted in confetti. Our line of tributes marches onwards between the towering maws of mansions and skyscrapers.

Overwhelmed, I refocus my attention on the other tributes in an attempt to tune out the crowd. As the chariots make their first arc along the road, the resplendent sheen of District 1's costumes reflects off their horses' polished pelts. What their stylist has done is astonishing. I can't tell for sure, but it appears that their togas have been gilded with some sort of molten metal that even now wavers inexplicably between liquid and solid. It's not exactly dripping down their sides, but nothing rock-hard could allow the fabric to respond with such fluidity to their movements. Whatever it is, it certainly does nothing to detract from the effortless grace both seem to exude as they preen and flex for the ecstatic throng.

I'm unable to get a good look at the 2s' costumes as we're directly behind them, but from the rigidity of their poses, I can tell that they're aiming for an angle closer to mine than to those of the 1s. Unlike me, however, their silence is undoubtedly meant to terrify rather than mystify and if it doesn't accomplish this job then I'm not from the technology district. More than one admirer is compelled to break eye contact every time the girl shifts her head towards them.

Swivelling around, I take in the 4s. I am neither surprised nor encouraged by what I see. Although the appearances are different on the most basic level – the impossibly brawny girl with her close-cropped hair and fearsome sea monster costume resembling a male more than her lanky, shaggy-haired counterpart does – their confidence echoes that of the other Careers. Undeniable. They've been prepared for this all their lives; there is no doubt that each of them is being envisioned as the potential Victor by hundreds of viewers at this very moment.

The stream of chariots trailing behind ours holds less potential but more consolation. Here, for the most part, I see the faces of children well aware that their fates are as uncertain as mine. A few – Orford from 10 and his partner, the sturdy-looking boys from 5, 7, and 9, and, surprisingly, young Jace from 12 – face the crowd with courage, though none are as obviously undaunted as the Careers. Most are like me, or at least how I'm hoping to present myself. Intimidated, but noticeably trying to control their fear. A few, whom I can't look on for too long in case I snap and completely abandon my efforts to appeal to the Capitol, don't even have that much going for them. Dimity is in tears again. The girl from 6 – _Agnes? _– is heading that way, biting her lip and clutching her district partner's hand. The boy, whose name I recall as being Daken, doesn't cry but stares around with the same wide-eyed horror as did his little brothers when they were pried from him at the reaping.

The street opens up into the City Circle and we begin the final lap of our journey amidst near-hysterical shrieks of excitement. Countless cheers for the Career districts, accompanied by a respectable amount for 10 and 12, herald our arrival. Try as I might, I can't discern more than a few shouts of "District Three!" among the commotion. I realize with a pang that I've spent the entire time examining my fellow tributes rather than the sponsors into whose hands I must place my life. Eyes squinted, held cocked slightly in what I can only pray resembles a mysterious expression, I redirect my attention to the crowd.

My chance to impress them is snatched away all too soon. The chariots halt with the music. We are parked before the icy white bulk of President Snow's mansion, veering sharply upwards into the sky. I will myself to focus on maintaining my neglected appearance but can't shake the mental image of the marble being splashed with crimson blood.

"Citizens of Panem," begins the President's official greeting. "It is an honour and a privilege to welcome you to the start of the Fifty-First Hunger Games. On this anniversary of our nation's glorious triumph over the rebellious districts..."

The speech drones on, chilling the summer air. I've always found the President to be repulsive simply by virtue of the atrocities he doesn't care to stop, but hearing him in person rather than through the crackling static of our television set intensifies this feeling a hundredfold. Being this close to the man most responsible for all the misery this country has suffered over the years is unbearable. I try to tune out the speech, but each word falls like a bullet of hail, demanding not only my attention but my approval as well.

It all combines to sharpen the reality of my situation – the deafening support for the career districts, my failure to engage the audience, the President subtly screaming our death sentences. I can't do it. I thought I could at least try but I can't. _I can't, I can't, I can't. _What was it Fabriola said? Calm, elegant, detached? It's blatantly obvious I can never be that person. The Wiress who looked at me from the mirror with something resembling confidence was a lie, a fabrication designed to make me – or, more likely, my stylist – feel better.

The image of our chariot flashes to the screen, merciless in its mockery. What I'd been trying to pass as an aura of alluring aloofness is, in reality, a silence that makes me recede into the background. I'm not willowy and elusive; I'm pin-straight and unresponsive. The best that can be said I don't appear to be paralyzed by fear like Dimity or the pair from 6. Other than that, I'm nothing. A cut-out space between districts whose tributes might manage to make me memorable solely by the way I die.

I can only hope I'm mistaken, and that Capitol's impression of me is marginally better than my own.

~~0~~

Maybell's expression tells me it wasn't.

It's not what she says but what she leaves unsaid that leaves the heavy weight of failure in my heart. My mentor has not spoken a word since I returned to our level of the Training Centre from the parade. I wasn't so foolish as to expect praise, but after showering and returning to the sitting room to find her still brooding in the same armchair, I can't take it any longer. Even criticism would be a relief from this stony silence.

"What did you do wrong?" she muses sarcastically in response to my hesitant question. I notice her voice is clear of her usual drunken slur. "Will you give me the time to write a list?"

"I-I know I wasn't very engaged with the audience," I reply, almost inaudible even to myself, "but I did try harder towards the end. At the City Cir-"

Maybell slams down her unopened beer bottle with such force that a crack branches across the glass surface of the table. As her face turns slowly upward, I'm seized with a glare so deeply filled with hatred that a terrified sob rips through my throat. It's not until I hit the wall that I realize I've been backing away this whole time.

"'The City Circle,'" Maybell repeats incredulously. "'The City Circle.' You think your problem started at the damned _parade_? By Snow's grave..."

Seemingly unable to speak, she pauses, furious patches of color illuminating her face while a wild light dances in her eyes. When she finally finds her voice, it's the kind of low and dangerous growl that masks extreme fury.

"It's been over twenty-four hours since you were reaped, and have you asked me one time about game strategy? About survival in the arena? About whether or not you have even the slightest chance of getting out alive? I don't even have to answer; you're doing it for me," she snarls as I shake my head frantically. "What kind of pathetic tribute do you think you are?"

"But – I –" I'm grasping futilely for words, completely unable to register the swift and sudden violence with which my mentor has rejected me. I wouldn't even be attempting to control the tremulous quaver in my voice if I wasn't scared she'll slap me senseless if I cry. "I didn't know I had to ask so early on – you never talked to me about–"

"Rule number one," Maybell cuts me off. "You take your survival into your own hands. Who's going to lead you around on a leash in the arena? No one. Forget going home; you won't even be able to find your way off the starting plate."

She brushes my protests aside with a dismissive hand and begins to stalk away. The arrival of an oblivious Arkel, who I can only hope received a better assessment from Beetee than I did from my mentor, rekindles her wrath in a heartbeat.

"And you!" she rages, startling him into a jump, "What have you done to prepare yourself for the Games? What have either of you done? Absolutely nothing! For the love of Panem, what I would do for a fighter! But there isn't a single one amongst the entire lot of you! Cowardly, useless, pitiful wretches, do nothing but sit around and whine and moan and then wonder what happened when they're under the Careers' swords, well, it's their own bleeding–"

"Maybell." Beetee's arrival must have been so quiet that none of us noticed it. He stands to the side with arms folded, examining the scene with cross disapproval. It hits me that this is the first time I've seen him since last night. "Maybell, are you drunk again?"

"Damn it, Beetee," she hisses, and I'm struck again by how obviously her voice has not been slowed by alcohol. "You should know how I work by now. A person sees more when they're underestimated; I thought you of all people would remember that. And these two idiots fell right into the trap." She jabs a finger at Arkel and I. "There's nothing salvageable in either of them. You can take them."

Beetee scowls darkly as she shoves past him into the kitchen. Grumbling to himself, he makes to walk away in the opposite direction, paying no heed to either of us.

"Beetee, wait!" I cry. He stops but does not turn. "What is it?"

"Are you going to be my mentor now, then?"

"No. Maybell's insane. There's absolutely nothing in the rulebook that allows ... I'll go speak to someone about this tomorrow..."

"I meant what I said," comes her curt voice from behind the door. "I'm not going to be responsible for this."

A ripple runs along his spine as he sighs in aggravation. After moving twice to leave, he grudgingly turns around and addresses me.

"If she won't take you, I can't exactly leave you to die. I'm your mentor until we get this cleared up. We'll talk more in the morning."

He gives me a painfully forced attempt at what might be a reassuring smile, then vacates the area without another word.

Despite the fact that they were intended to hurt rather than to inspire, Maybell's words have sparked something within me. It's not just her. It's Fabriola and it's the chariot rides and the Capitol's lukewarm reception, but more than all of those combined, it's the memory of Talee in the justice center. _Look me in the eye_, her child's voice whispers in my mind, _and tell me honestly that you'll do everything you can, everything humanly possible, to get home. _

I haven't. As much as I would like to shirk from the truth, I haven't been respecting the promise I made her and Dad. Thoughts of my behaviour today bruise me. My refusal to cooperate with the prep team unless they saved my dress. The foolish words I spoke criticising our district's factories, which might mean execution if I wasn't already being led to the gallows. The absolute lack of effort I put into winning the crowd. I wince at the memory, utterly ashamed. Did I wave, smile, catch flowers? Did I even look at the Capitolians? Did I give them anything that, in their shallow minds, would be worth saving?

A new resolve creeps over me, hardening my nerves into steel. My supporters may not view me as anything more than a piece in the Games, but at least their goals coincide with my survival. That's more than can be said for most of the people in this city. If they think I should take my life into my own hands, then as long as I don't have to stoop to the unmentionable, I will try.

I am completely and utterly terrified, but I will try.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks to PK9 for helping me improve a confusing sentence in here! **

The following morning begins almost as a repeat of the previous, with two critical differences. Firstly, I surrender only fifteen minutes to tears before last night's promise steels my face and my resolve. Secondly, and far more importantly, it is Beetee, not Maybell, who joins us at the breakfast table.

His usual brooding expression only slightly lifted, he waves away an Avox offering to serve him and takes a seat. My unasked question hangs in the air as he spoons a pile of scrambled eggs and ham onto his plate.

Finally seeming to sense our anticipation, he jerks his head up. "You two can eat, you know."

Arkel complies as I pounce on the thread of conversation. Too much depends on this moment for me to let him retreat back into silence, despite how much I'd like to.

"You're going to be my mentor, then?"

He emits a deep sigh of frustration as he sets down his fork, though his focus remains on the tablecloth. "Officially, no. Technically, yes. While she can't exactly march up to the Gamemakers and refuse to mentor you, there's nothing stopping Maybell from doing what she wants as long as she does it quietly. So I'll take up the role. Off-records, of course."

Although some small, resentful part of me wants him to demand Maybell to do the job required of her, it's softened by a new feeling. Gratitude. The dark shade that's cloaked my spirits for two days lifts slightly. I realize this is the first time since I was reaped that I've felt truly appreciative of one of the members of my support team.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

"Don't thank me."

"It just means a lot," I press, in what I hope is a sympathetic tone, "that you'd accept the responsibility when you already have another –"

"I said, _don't _thank me."

This is punctuated by a forceful slap of his hand on the table. Both Arkel and I jump. Seeming to regret his outburst, Beetee sighs again and burrows his eyes deeper into the tablecloth. His voice takes on a calm, dead, tone. "I haven't done anything yet, after all. And it hopefully won't be permanent. Maybell's bound to see sense." His last sentence seems more to convince himself than us. "For Panem's sake, let her see sense."

He has done it again. No sooner do I begin to suspect him of genuine human emotion than he withdraws back into sullen indifference, acting with generosity and then wishing he could undo it. Moreover, it has just dawned on me that the man across the table has probably sat in this same spot with at least half the previous tributes I can remember. But unlike me, for whom they have only come alive through their deaths, Beetee actually knew them. Can he remember their names, as he did with Arkel's on the train? Was he able to view them as individuals, or did they lose that status for him when death stripped it away, transforming them from people to mere names? In the likely situation that I don't return home, will I suffer the same fate in his eyes? Or am I even human to begin with? It's impossible to figure it out, but I can't help but fear that if I asked, I wouldn't like the answer. My urge to reconnect the dead wires of a conversation doubles, unfamiliar yet strong.

"What were the names of your tributes last year?" I ask, voice quiet but spiked with as much purpose as I can muster. Beetee shoots me a suspicious glance before immediately dropping his sight back to his breakfast.

Annoyance with my own social awkwardness gnawing at me, I wonder how to pursue the topic. Flying off the handle is not an option – not only is it completely beyond me to do so, but I should tread lightly if I'm to avoid angering one of the few people trying to keep me alive. Yet, with relentlessness as alien to me as the lavish food on the table, I keep up my hushed confrontation.

"Can you remember their names?" I press. No response. "No? What about..." I run through my mental list of past tributes, turning a few names over until I settle on another year's victim. "Thew Canda. Do you remember him?"

A moment's silence, then Beetee gives me the second surprise of the morning. With slow, heavy purpose, he lifts his gaze and stares me directly in the face. I can't describe the sensation that shoots through me, but the closest experience I can imagine is an electric shock. Far from their cold emptiness, the eyes probing mine are intense with emotion. Pain?

"Thew Canda." Beetee repeats the words pensively, as if determined to prove that they still hold a place in his memory. "Male tribute of the forty-third Games. Sixteen years old. Managed to reach fifth place before –"

"Before he was torn to shreds by muttations," I interject.

Our eyes remain locked. Although I am the tribute and he the mentor, I feel strangely like a schoolteacher whose belief in the dullness of a certain student has just been challenged by a phenomenal grade.

"As for last year's tribute," the Victor continues, "they were Monit Scarnel, aged fourteen, and Ryers Belgwit, aged seventeen. You seem to know what happened to them."

"Monit was killed at the bloodbath," I recite gravely, "by one of the boys from One, I believe. Ryers made it to the second day, but drank from a poisoned stream."

Beetee nods slowly, evaluating me beneath his glasses. I get the impression he is just as taken aback by my asking the questions as I am by his answering.

"How did you know this?" he asks finally.

It takes me several minutes to come up with a satisfactory answer. How to explain the unshakeable and fascinating hold the Hunger Games have so long exerted on me? Will the real story - that of the bird in the cage - strike a chord within him, or seem nothing more than a child's sentimentality? Moreover, am I really willing to discuss my most closely-held values with a man whose past actions are clearly at odds with them? I decide that elusiveness is an acceptable route. After all, wasn't that my official angle at the opening ceremony? And Beetee has no right to complain, since he is little more open than I.

"I've paid close attention to every Game since I was seven years old," I explain, evasively but not untruthfully. "They've always affected me deeply, moreso than the average districtgoers, I guess. I think it's important to remember the tributes-"

I cut myself off before I can utter anything treasonous, with the result that the sentence ends rather awkwardly. Beetee raises his eyebrows but says nothing. I'm seized by the desire to know whether he knew and agreed with my thoughts, but by returning to his meal he signifies that this conversation is over.

I get in a few bites of toast slathered in the richest jam I have ever tasted before my mentor speaks up again. By his level, direct tone, the recent outpouring of emotion might never have happened at all.

"Now, Maybell may be perceptive, but I'd prefer to believe that she's wrong in one regard about the two of you. Namely, that you don't yet want to die. Am I correct in assuming that neither of you have given up?"

I nod my head perhaps a little too ardently to be believable, while Arkel, after overcoming his shock over his sudden inclusion in the conversation, does the same, albeit more shakily.

"Good. Then let's talk strategy. Wiress, Arkel, what would you say your strengths are?"

Silence. I embark on a frantic mental run-through of my talents, and although few of them seem to hold any practical purpose in the arena, I deem it too risky to dismiss something as useless. I've seen desperate non-Career tributes claw their way to victory with makeshift weapons in many recent Games. And while I can leave combat off my list of foreseeable survival strategies, Fabriola's assessment yesterday leaves me hope that at least one of my current skills will prove useful.

"I'm logical," I divulge softly, "and I have a good memory. I was always in the top percentile when it came to school grades." My use of the term _was _sends out a pang, but I press on. I can't give in this easily. "Also, my stylist says that I see the big picture. I think it comes from being able to map out the different machines in the factory in my head, even though I didn't get to see them from above much. I that means I can ... grasp a sense of the whole from the little details."

I look to him for any indication that this may help me live to see my family again. As usual, his expression reveals nothing, though his brisk nod seems to signal agreement. "Anything else?"

"I'm about as adept with electronics as anyone from Three," I finish. "I've worked in the wire-making factory since I was eight years old."

"And you?" Beetee turns to Arkel.

"I..." He doesn't seem to have prepared for this moment at all, and I feel a familiar surge of pity. I might not have much going my way, but it's certainly better than nothing. "I'm ... I'm fast?"

"You'd have to be, to ring Maybell Lectric's doorbell and get away alive," the victor confirms. Arkel's downtrodden face brightens fractionally, though Beetee offers no further approval before continuing on through his instructions.

"Right, then. Now, if things were going as planned and each of you had your own mentor, you'd be able to talk with them privately, but as it is, you don't, and we're running low on time." I glance briefly at the ornate wall clock, which reads nine-fifty. A jolt shudders through my stomach, tempting me to empty all I've eaten. Only ten minutes until I meet my fellow tributes and the next stage of the Games begins for real. "I'll give the two of you some last-minute instructions before you head off, and we can have one-on-one strategy sessions tonight. I'd say, from what I see and what you've told me about yourselves, to take a shot at everything you can. If you don't have a survival plan yet, informing yourself of what you can and can't do is the best way to figure one out. After today, you'll know where your strengths lie and can focus on them for the remaining day and a half. Don't completely overlook the combat stations, but don't put all your faith in them, either, especially not the heavier weapons. Instead, focus on those skills you can see yourself mastering, and those which will be necessary for survival. Shelter-building. Fire-starting. The like."

With this he rises from his seat, pushing the chair back into its place with a dull thud. Awkwardly I do the same, with Arkel copying hastily. It's time. The finality of our actions seizes me; I feel I should thank Beetee once more, but my throat feels dry despite the copious amounts of orange juice I've treated it to.

"Here's my final advice," our mentor concludes. "What you don't know by the end of one day won't be enough to save your lives in three, no matter how much you practice it in training. No tribute ever won by relying on their weaknesses. Remember that."

"Oh, goody, everyone's up!" Gallus materializes out of nowhere, his characteristic hideousness destroying the gravity of moment. "All right, kiddies, off to training! You will try not to embarrass yourselves, won't you? You must know it reflects very poorly back on me when my tributes make fools of themselves."

Beetee nods at us gravely as we leave the table. The solemnity in his demeanour is completely at odds with Gallus' enthusiasm, and I get the idea that this refusal to so much as acknowledge the other man's presence stings our escort more than a slap in the face. A half-smile nudges at my cheeks, making me wonder if this could be an intentional show of support for us.

Right before the door swings shut, he stares at me directly for the second time. His look of sympathy enforces my belief that it was.

~~0~~

No sooner have the elevator doors slid noiselessly shut behind us than Arkel presses close to my side. I'm slightly confused by this show of apparent affection until I take in the full size of the training gymnasium and wish I had Talee or even father to shrink behind as well.

The vast space runs at least the full length of the wire factory back home, possibly more counting the antechamber off to one side. Its slate-grey enormity is occupied by a plethora of small stations, displaying between them every ability even remotely connected to arena survival. My first impression is that the skills used by every Victor in history to buy their life with blood were learned in this very room. Being where I am, on the brink of losing either my life or my humanity, I'm not sure what to think of that.

Although I've been standing here gawking at the room for several minutes, I only just process the fact that we're not alone. To my immediate left, separated from us by a mere five feet, stand two young men. Even if I didn't recognize them from the reapings and parade, the fact that I can't remember either of their names or districts would alert me that these are careers. I take in the finely-sculpted appearance of the fair-haired one and am reminded of the marble statues of past presidents guarding our Justice Building. Every morning I would hurry past them on the way to school, avoiding the cold, carved eyes that had caused so much suffering, and find my emotions here to be eerily similar.

Right when I think we've gone unnoticed, the elevator deposits another load of trembling tributes and the careers' quiet conversation ends. Abruptly the darker boy snaps up his head, eyeing us and the newcomers with unmasked anticipation.

"Interested in these?" he begins in a low sneer, gesturing towards the more formidable weapons at a nearby station. "I'm sure I could give a demonstration. On second thought, maybe I should save it for the arena. After all, where's the fun if there's no cameras around?"

I'm dimly aware of my heart thundering in my ears. Despite all the acts of malice and torture I've come to expect from Careers after watching them in so many Games, something within me can't comprehend this. A human being can't possibly be this cruel.

The speaker opens his mouth to continue, but is cut off by the blonde. "Aw, come on, Marinus. Don't scare the poor kids out of their minds." His agreeable grin and unusual air of sincerity belie the implication of his words. "They've only got a few more days; why not let them enjoy what's left of their lives?"

A stifled scream comes from behind me, causing Marinus to chuckle darkly. I turn around to see Dimity from eight balling her hands into fists in an obvious effort to hold herself together, while both from six seem on the verge of tears. Incredibly, little Jash from twelve continues to surprise me by staring down the careers defiantly. If it wasn't for his trembling and the deathly pale color of his skin, I would say he is the only untrained tribute here who is immune to fear.

Mercifully, the remaining tributes and a trainer arrive at that moment, and assistants begin pinning sheets of paper with our district numbers onto our shirts. Terror and disgust mingling with relief, I watch the two career boys – who turn out to be from 1 and 4 – saunter off to join their cohorts. They make a fearsome ensemble: the District One girl with her unspeakable beauty; her counterpart, who I envision throttling me while still wearing that winning smile; Marinus and his monstrous district partner continuing to leer at their competition; all overshadowed by the icy, arrogant indifference of the girl from Two. As her gaze wanders slowly around, lingering upon each tribute with such superiority we might be subhuman, I am disturbed by the apathy I feel towards their fates. For one horrible moment, I pictured a stronger, more capable version of myself in the final two with one of them, and the reluctance I felt to deliver a fatal blow was distressingly minimal.

_Don't think like that, Wiress. It always starts this way. Kill once in self-defence and by the end of the Games you'd kill your own best friend to get home. You've seen enough to know it's true. _

In an effort to prevent my mind from straying down similar routes, I give my ears to the head trainer. He's reading off a list of stations. The half-formulated plan I've tossed around since last night begins to emerge from a murk of uncertainty. Despite the minimal amount of time I've spent talking to the mentors, I feel I have a generally good idea of how I'll approach the arena, and Beetee's encouragement to search out and stick to skills we're comfortable with reinforces it. If I'm to survive until the final two finish each other off, my greatest ally must be stealth. I can deal with the psychological aspects of isolation – even back home, the extent of my social life was conversing briefly with several acquaintances at work and school – but it's the physical ones that I must conquer. Relying on common gathering points such as lakes, feasts, or other tributes' food piles for nourishment is certain to get me killed, and judging from last night's performance, it's unwise to depend solely on sponsors, either. No, if I'm to remain properly hidden for the duration of the Games, I'll need to master survival skills.

After reminding us that we are not to practise combat on one another – because, of course, we must all be in prime condition to entertain the Capitol – the trainer dismisses us. While a small group comprised mostly of Careers fans out immediately, the rest of us remain huddled by the doors. I know what holds them all back because I'm feeling it myself. I'm still clinging to the hope that, if I don't accept this as reality, someone will swoop down from the sky and carry me away to safety. I don't know who I'm waiting for. Dad, I guess. Talee. Even Mom.

_They're not here to shield you any longer, _I remind myself. _It's you that has to be strong now. _

A deep breath coursing through my body, I take a few uncertain steps forward. No sooner have I broken away from the rest of the group than Arkel shadows me. Thinking perhaps it's a coincidence, I veer unpredictably towards the axe-throwing station, which I doubt he'd ever visit of his own accord. To my slight perturbation, he follows with only a moment's hesitation.

Up until this point, I've felt the two of us to be a team. Not particularly close, of course, but bound together by shared misfortunes. Notwithstanding Beetee and Fabriola, both of whom I'd rather not get caught up in trying to analyze right now, he's also been the only person here to show me compassion. After all, what else can you feel for someone who has just as slight a chance of going home as you? But it occurs to me now that we can't go through this together. In fact, it would be catastrophic for me to ally at all. Having a comrade would make it difficult to hide, but more importantly, it presents far too convenient an opportunity to murder. What easier life to take than that of the person who stays by your side at all times, sleeps under your watchful eye, depends on you for protection and survival? What would I do if we were the final two? When the temptation to kill is so great, would I truly be able to restrain myself...?

I don't know. All I know is that I must do all I can to ensure it does not come to that.

I turn just as sharply away from the axes, startling him as he attempts and fails to change direction. "Which station are we going to, then?"

"I don't think we should go through training together," I admit, ashamed of my own directness.

"W-what?" He fumbles with his glasses, taken aback. "Sorry – I just thought – since we're district partners and all – I mean, it's not like we have anything to hide from each other."

"It's not that," I clarify quickly. It's hard not to blame myself for the pleading tone that's crept into his voice. "But ... the two of us will cover more ground if we go to different stations. Then, later on, we can share what we've learned. I have no problems with that."

"Oh, okay." He still seems somewhat disappointed, but nods in agreement. "That's probably a better idea, anyway. Where do you think I should go?"

"Uh..." The feeling of being looked to for instruction is completely alien. "You said you were good at running, right?" He nods. "Maybe try short-distance sprinting?"

"Sounds good. Thanks!"

It's as if a heavy cloak has slipped from my shoulders as I watch him hurry obediently off to the far side of the gym. He'll probably still need some more dissuasion, but I'm certain that going through the Games separately is better for both of us.

I devote the following hour to various different survival skills, remaining until I feel relatively comfortable with what is offered. Once I am able to shield my mind from the guilt of effectively abandoning Arkel, my focus sharpens and I find myself settling into a comfortable rhythm. Learning, working, learning, working. Back at home, it was one of the only methods of escape from my nightmarish obsession with the Games. I'd devote the mandatory Capitol propaganda classes to working on science projects under my desk, fiddling with a switch here or adjusting a cord there. It helped after school, too. Talee's chatter could always liven me up, but as she worked on a different floor of the factory, she was rarely around when I needed her most. Instead, I would lose myself to the incessant whirring and predictable routine of machines, allowing the countless gruesome memories of on-screen deaths to be whisked away with the wires. In the solitude and familiarity I found comfort, and it's almost enough to make me forget that I'm preparing for a Game of life and death.

The first station I visit is shelter-building, which I find to be relatively straightforward. My lean-to wobbles worryingly despite my attention to steadying its base; fortunately, the art of tying down tree branches to create a cozy and inconspicuous hideaway comes far more naturally. Hoping there will be sufficient foliage in the arena, I move on with the promise to return and improve my shelter-building skills tomorrow. I can never be too careful.

Next I try my hand with edible plants and insects. To my satisfaction, I manage to sort nearly all of the samples on the first try, thrown off only by a glossy black scorpion whose sting appears lethal but apparently delivers only enough venom to kill a small insect. Mind swimming with deadly round berries versus nutritious segmented ones, the slight greenish hue of nausea-inducing beetles and the uniform grey of their edible kin, I stay for nearly an hour to ensure no more slip my mind, and leave in perhaps the best spirits I've been in all day.

Fire-starting proves vastly more difficult. While I could probably come up with fifteen different ways to set the kindling ablaze with a copper wire, I dismiss this thought immediately. Unless by some miracle the arena is composed completely of machinery, there is unlikely to be a wire in sight, and even if I have sponsors, I am not foolish enough to rely on them for something so costly. Yet starting a fire with matches poses another problem.

Squinting in slight concentration, I dash the two red-tipped sticks against each other. A small flame springs to life, accompanied by a spark. Yowling in surprise, I drop the matches instinctively. It's only when the fire splutters out against the cold floor that I become aware of how fast my heart was racing.

"Something wrong, sweetie?" asks the assistant. Her voice is gentle, yet I can't shake the feeling that it drips with condescension. _As if she's ever had the need to start a fire in her life._

"N-no." How could I explain to her? All I know is that, in District 3, sparks mean _danger. _Certainly you see them flying everywhere, but that's a constant reminder of the power of machines, how one misstep or blown fuse could engulf a factory in flames. Too many and everyone knows they have mere minutes to find cover before something explodes. One of the first thing children are taught is not to touch anything with "little fireworks" coming out of it. Of course, not all of them listen. It's not uncommon to see mourners accompanying a far-too-tiny coffin to the mass graveyard, its occupant having succumbed to electric shock.

I take a deep breath to steady myself and try again. The results are the same. Growing desperate after several more unsuccessful attempts, I strike one pair together too hard. A match snaps in half and spins across the floor.

"It's not _that _difficult, dearie," comes the assistant's sigh.

Ignoring her comment, I hunch over and return to my fruitless efforts. Within a few moments I feel the absence of her shadow and look up curiously. A mild unease prickles over my skin. Two more tributes have just arrived at the station.

So far, I've managed to avoid company. A combination of my natural unsociability, ability to concentrate better when alone, and – although I suspect my fellow unwilling tributes of far less hostility than the careers – fear of what the others may do to me in several days' time has driven me to seek out the unoccupied stations. Yet I can't just leave now. Fire-starting is an essential skill, especially seeing as I'm not going to be sent any pre-cooked meals in the arena.

I try to occupy myself with the matches before realizing I've used up my last pair. Turning to ask the assistant for another box, I come face-to-face with the broad smile of a girl whom I place as the one from District Five.

"Hello," she greets good-naturedly. "I'm Ciara. District Five." She giggles, which I find baffling. "What's your name?"

"Wiress," I reply, nodding at her and her wavy-haired companion. Not wishing to appear unfriendly, I try to keep my tone even and non-confrontational, though not particularly inviting. "District Three."

When she appears to have nothing more to say I back out of the conversation eagerly. It's not that I bear them any resentment; more that I feel safer when free of the expectation to sustain an interesting discussion. However, the shared severity of our situation weighs upon me. If I am to survive, might she not be one of the faces I memorialize as well? I cannot claim to respect my competition – my fellow tributes – if I pay them attention only after their deaths.

"I'm ... sorry for what happened to you. At the reaping, I mean." _Could I possibly be any more awkward? _

Ciara does not respond for a moment, then looks up from her matches with what I take to be bravery. Her voice is quieter than before but still positive. "Well, what's done is done. All in the same boat now, aren't we?"

"Uh, I guess."

"But we're sorry, too, for you," murmurs the other girl softly, with a genuinely sympathetic smile.

"Thanks," I intone.

I'm halfway through the next set of matches when one of them taps me on the shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Hey! Fidda – she's from Nine – Fidda and I were wondering if you'd like an alliance," Ciara offers. "We're thinking of maybe getting a couple things from the bloodbath, keeping low, trying to stay hidden. Nothing confrontational. What do you say?"

I analyze her. Hand outstretched, eyes bright, welcoming smiles on both their faces – as far as I can tell, there's no reason to suspect they are being false. True, this is the Hunger Games, and everyone can be said to harbour a hidden agenda. But these are not careers. They seem like legitimately decent people, ones who certainly don't deserve their fate.

And that is the reason I can't possibly allow myself the comfort of an alliance. Have Ciara and Fidda thought about what will happen if things go according to their plan? They stay hidden, avoid conflict, become the final two, and then what? Destroy their newly established friendship in order to go home? It's doubtful they know anything about how the Games work. They must be too naive, too trusting, to realize how easy it is to fall, how the only way to avoid corruption in the arena is to avoid others completely.

"I'm sorry," I say, hoping I sound forceful enough to get my point across. "I'm going it alone. If I'm with too many people I won't be able to hide properly." Then, hating to disappoint anyone, "I hope you understand."

"That's okay," responds Ciara. "Good luck, then." Both she and her partner stretch out their hands and I shake them, taken aback but grateful for this show of kindness.

Deciding that one more set of broken matches won't get me any closer to home, I stand up to seek out the next useful station. Before I go, I cast one look back at the two girls, clustered around a faintly smoking pile of tinder.

"I won't hurt you if I see you in the arena," I promise, deciding not to weaken the moment by making it known that the same rule applies to everybody.

"We won't, either," smiles Fidda. "Good luck, Wiress."

~~0~~

By the time the head trainer claps his hands and declares it's time for lunch, I've visited two more stations and grasped the basics of skinning, cooking, and dressing minor wounds. My efforts to piece together any information about the arena have been less successful – so far, nothing I've seen has made me believe it's anything other than the typical forest landscape. Whatever the Gamemakers decide to throw at us, I hope it provides cover.

We congregate in an antechamber off to the side of the gym. A number of small tables are arranged around the center of the room, through which a river of food-laden carts flows. Most of the tributes sit in district pairs or by themselves, lone islands amidst a sea of awkward silence.

I note that Ciara and Fidda are still together, appearing perfectly at ease as they laugh and smile. Also predictably, the careers have claimed the seats closest to the buffet, with the result that the rest of us must pass through piercing eyes and malicious leers if we want to get a bite to eat. The Fours sneer insults as I make my way to the steaming carts, trying to appear detached despite my pounding heartbeat. District One look on arrogantly but without comment, while the Twos continue to ignore us as if we are beneath contempt. I'm not sure whether I'm grateful for or offended by this.

I carry a tray of mashed potatoes and vegetables to an unoccupied table in one of the far corners and sit down. Before I can so much as lift the fork to my mouth, a shuffling from behind me announces the presence of Arkel.

"Hey," he mutters self-consciously, "You don't mind if I sit here, do you?"

Unable to turn him away, I shake my head. It can't hurt, and I did promise him I'd talk strategy later. He plops down gratefully and nibbles on a bread roll.

"So," I begin after a few minutes, realizing that if we're to sustain any sort of conversation, I'll have to be the topic-starter for once, "learn anything useful? How did sprinting go?"

"Er..." he glances nervously to the side. "I was doing all right, before the boy from 1 came along. He didn't say anything, if that's what you're wondering, but, well ... what do you think my time looked like next to that?"

"That's too bad," I offer lamely, unsure of how to console him when I know he speaks the truth.

"Yeah, well." He shrugs resignedly. "How about you?"

"I've been to shelter-building, edible plants and insects, fire-starting, preparing game, and first aid." I recite the list of stations quietly, partially to disappoint possible eavesdroppers and partially out of embarrassment for Arkel's sake. He appears interested, however, and I spend the majority of lunch relaying what I've learned in a whisper, placing emphasis on the most important skills or bits I found particularly difficult.

"That's really helpful," Arkel enthuses when I finish. He bestows me with a look of wide-eyed admiration. "I'll head off to those stations right after lunch."

"Wouldn't it make more sense for you to cover the stations I haven't tried yet," I counter, "so you'll learn more?"

"Oh, of course. Right!"

Something about his willingness to follow, his lack of self-reliance, ignites curiosity within me. I'm sharply reminded of how very little I know about him in the first place. Back at home, the few occasions I saw him gave me the impression that he was mischievous and irreverent, perhaps moreso under the pressure of his troublemaking peers than of his own decision. But here, he seems a cut-out – an empty space in need of filling. There's fear, certainly, yet beyond that, what? Nothing? Or is it all a mask? Is he hiding something?

_Trying to analyze people again? _I chide myself with a wry smile. _Good luck with that. _

"Just go to whatever stations you think are important," I offer. "Let's keep trying to avoid each other, though. I – I mean, so we cover more ground, you know?"

"Sure thing!"

~~0~~

"I can still see you," informs the trainer. She paces around the spot where I'm currently hunched, examining me from all angles. "It's your arms. They should either be tucked out of the way or camouflaged as well. Don't rest your chin on them like that, either. It's too conspicuous."

Nodding obediently, I reach for the jar and slather another layer of thick green slime over my forearms. I've spent the past hour and a half frozen in front of a lush backdrop, meticulously positioning fake vegetation in front of me. I figure that staying out of sight for a period of up to two weeks may mean remaining in the same location interminably, whether while waiting for danger to pass or just avoiding it. In that regard, the stealth-and-camouflage station has proven immensely helpful. The instructor has drilled me ruthlessly on every aspect of staying unseen, criticizing even the number of times I breathe per minute. By this point, I've learned how to paint my skin to blend in with its surroundings, how to place my limbs in such a way that I'm comfortable, unnoticed, and ready to flee at any moment, and even how to arrange the leaves around me so that they appear untouched. Judging my arms to be sufficiently jungle-colored, I drop them straight at my sides and wait for evaluation.

"Perfect," the trainer announces. "Absolutely perfect. So long as you remain still, keep your breathing rate down and don't rustle the foliage, the other tributes will have a very difficult time finding you. And that's if they take the time to look. Just passing by, they wouldn't stand a chance."

"Thank you," I say, rising from my huddled position for what seems like the first time in years. My joints scream in protest, but my heart blazes with pride. "Especially for the praise."

"You've earned it. Frankly, if the Games were a contest of stealth alone, I'd say it'd be very nearly a given that you'd be wearing that crown."

A warm ripple of hope surges through me. For one tantalizingly long moment, the faint possibility of going home grows into something solid and real. Snatching this feeling like a lifeline, I close my eyes. Dad's face. Talee's face. Never have I imagined them so clearly.

I'm jolted out of this reverie by a disapproving shout. The magic melts away, leaving behind it the cold metal interior of the training center and all it represents. An instant later, someone bustles past, hurrying to the nearby swordfighting station which appears to be the source of the commotion.

"Didn't you hear what your head trainer said?" demands the new arrival to the station's occupants, both of whom have their hands locked around a blunted weapon. "Fighting between tributes is expressly forbidden before the starting gong!"

Orford from District Ten uncurls his fingers from the hilt and stands to face his challenger with a cool, collected purpose. I can't help but notice that he's at least a head taller than the Capitolian.

"We weren't breaking any rules," he replies levelly, voice supremely unaffected by anger. "It takes two weapons to fight. We were both using the same one. I was helping him."

"He's right, sir," the swordfighting trainer adds in a rush. "I would never have allowed such an infraction to take place at my station. He was just showing the kid how to go through the motions. Nothing to raise a fuss over."

The other trainer nods, defeated, and leaves as quickly as he came. Even I can see that the second argument wasn't necessary. He was convinced to desist the instant he heard such self-assuredness from the mouth of a district boy. Just like last night, when Orford comforted Dimity on the chariots, I feel a rush of admiration for the courage this young man possessed in defending himself against someone in such a superior position. It's accompanied by a slight twinge of guilt when I imagine how I'd shrink or stammer a feeble excuse were I in his shoes. _Although that's not entirely true,_ I think, consoling myself with the thought of how I stood up to Gallus about my dress.

I linger a few moments, watching as Orford assists the younger boy from Six. Placing his large, weathered hands over the trembling ones on the sword, he swings gently and purposefully before tapping the blade against a dummy's heart. After repeating these movements several times, he gives a few words of encouragement and allows the boy to attempt this himself. The Six's motions are just as sloppy as I expected, but he still manages to score a slight cut in the canvas of the target.

The scene remains implanted in my memory throughout the remainder of the afternoon. It's certainly a unique occurrence - although, to be fair, districtgoers are never able to view the training days unless they are unlucky enough to be part of them, so I wouldn't know if something like this has happened before. Still, it seems unlikely. My mind wanders over his possible motives for helping the far weaker boy, but all I can arrive at are dead ends. I would certainly like to believe he did it out of the goodness of his heart, but my previous knowledge of the Games leads me to take acts of compassion from those with higher chances of survival with a grain of salt. Yet there's something in his actions - both this and his kindness to Dimity on the chariots - which inspires me to think the best of him. It's something human, something I feel privileged to have witnessed, and something which I can only hope the Capitol will not succeed in destroying.

~~0~~

"So," Beetee begins, "Strategy." He leaves the word suspended in the air for the moment it takes me to settle in the plush armchair, then plows onwards. "What did you learn in training?"

It's after supper. Once again it was just the three of us, though I can't say Maybell's continued absence dampened any of our spirits. I'd been waiting for about half an hour in my bedroom before a dispirited Arkel knocked on the door to announce the end of his private session and the start of mine. By seven o'clock in the evening of one of the longest days of my life, with the thought of my districtmate's downcast expression lingering in my mind, I'm hardly in the mood to go dwell on what might happen in less than a week. I'd rather curl up and go to bed. But Beetee's perceptive black eyes demand an answer, and what's more, I haven't forgotten my promise.

"Shelter-building, edible plants, fire-starting, preparing game, first aid, camouflage, and climbing," I list. He nods thoughtfully, prompting me to elaborate. "I was pretty good at most of them. Edible plants and camouflage went the best. Fire-starting gave me some trouble, though, so I've been planning to go back to it tomorrow. In fact, I think I'm going to revisit most of them, just to be careful."

Beetee continues to nod in his slow, scrutinizing manner, once again driving me to an almost desperate need to know what he's thinking. Have I done well? Poorly? Is he impressed, or wondering how many seconds I'll last after the starting gong plunges the arena into chaos?

"That's very good," he imparts finally, tone neutral but, from what I can tell, not uncivil. "Have you considered going to any combat stations?"

A warning flares inside me. "But you said-"

"-Not to put all your faith in them," he quotes, "but not to completely overlook them."

My heart rate rises dangerously. I focus on my clasped hands, knotting the fingers over and under each other. "I ... I'm planning on survival skills being my chief asset."

"I understand," Beetee presses, "But you will need more than that to survive."

"What about that boy from Five a few years ago?" Much like Haymitch Abernathy's, Shiran Kirkland's victory came as a complete surprise, not only because he was thirteen years old but also due to the fact that he spent most of his Games hiding. His tributes the following year were not so fortunate, taking the brunt of the Careers' fury over their districts' previous humiliation. "He won mainly by staying undetected."

"True," our Victor concedes, "but when it came down to it he fought like the rest of them." He sighs. "Trust me; I know from experience. Even if you're lucky enough not to encounter any other tributes, keeping a low profile will get you into the final five at most. What do you plan to do after that?"

_Keep hiding until the final two kill each other off? _Every protest I can come up with crumbles before the awful infallibility of my mentor's words. As if exposed by a harsh light, the tiny hope I've clung to appears all the more vain and insubstantial. My chances of survival lie balanced on an extremely unlikely circumstance. Yet what else do I have? Accept the plan's implausibility and I will lose all hope; attempt to enforce it with violence and I lose myself. What can I possibly do but continue to walk this thin tightrope between my two promises, praying with whatever force created this world that I won't fall?

"I don't know," I admit quietly. "But I'm not going to kill. I - I promised myself."

Just this morning I was unwilling to discuss my personal beliefs with Beetee, and now I'm pouring out my soul. It seems unthinkable that I'm admitting this to him, the person whose mysterious victory has haunted my nightmares since I was five years old and who I still don't know if I can trust.

Beetee sighs and turns his head so he's staring off into space. For what seems an interminable silence, neither of us speaks. When he finally opens his mouth, his words are softer, wearier, than I had imagined.

"I can't force you to do anything, Wiress," he says, meeting my gaze for the third time. "But I strongly recommend you visit at least one weapon station. That's not a guarantee you'll use one in the arena," he adds quickly, "but any intelligent tribute has a backup plan, and I get the impression that you're far from stupid. Practicing with a knife or bow in training can't hurt anyone, and - most importantly - if you show the Gamemakers that you're capable of physical combat, they'll have to take that into consideration when deciding your final score. Which, of course, means-"

"More sponsors," I finish, "meaning, a better chance of relying on donations rather than searching for or stealing what I need myself."

I concoct a scenario more likely to occur than not - myself, hunched in the bushes of some forbidding arena, torn between remaining in my haven or venturing out to get a drink of water, a handful of berries, a rabbit in a trap. The thought of my decision being made for me in the form of a silver parachute is comforting and uplifting.

It is even more so when the scenario changes. This time, it's not my own safety that I must compromise, but that of a weaker tribute who I'm tempted to threaten in order for a scrap of food. The arrival of the silver parachute switches from being fortuitous to absolutely necessary.

"The more sponsors you have, the more time you'll be able to spend hiding." Beetee's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You know, of course, that you can't rely on them completely. But I assume if you didn't, you wouldn't have bothered with all those survival stations, am I correct?"

I nod in confirmation. "I made plans to survive without sponsors. Well - to try, at least."

What may be the first genuine warmth I've ever seen him possess tugs his mouth into a faint smile. "If you believed that you were number one in the betting, this would come as a bit of a blow," he says, "but seeing as your outlook is far less positive, hopefully this'll have the opposite effect. For a non-career tribute, you're not doing as poorly as you'd think in terms of sponsorship. There's still a long way to go, of course, but there are others worse off than you."

By 'others worse off than me,' I assume he means those who burst into tears at their reaping or stood petrified during the opening ceremony, but it's heartening nonetheless.

"I'll think about it, then. This _doesn't_ mean I'm going to kill," I remind him emphatically, "but if it'll get me more sponsors, and remove the likelihood of encountering others..." _Not to mention killing them..._

"I'm glad to hear it," Beetee declares. He rests his chin on one of his hands and regards me curiously. "You're a very interesting person, Wiress. I can't fathom why Maybell gave up on you."

I can think of several reasons myself, but the current optimism - if it can be called that - of the conversation dissuades me from bringing them up. "I thought it was because she was drunk."

Beetee laughs humorlessly. "Maybell Lectric has lived thirty-four years since winning her Games, and I personally believe she spends half of them sober and half drunk out of her mind. She's developed quite a clever routine, actually. The more often she drinks, the less often people take her seriously. So on those times when she only _acts_ intoxicated..."

"People let their guard down," I catch on, instantly remembering Maybell's angry words from last night. Dislike for my former mentor swells venomously within me. "She plays the fool to lure others into taking off their masks. And what she saw in Arkel and I, she didn't find worth saving."

"It's not that," Beetee counters. "She just ... won't settle for anything less than a fighter. So many years of mentoring, with only one Victor for all her efforts; I can't blame her even if I don't agree. After all, I've felt..." He cuts himself off abruptly; a more reserved tone clips the ends of his words. "You don't need to hear this. Just know I don't share her opinion of either of you."

I still can't shed my revulsion. It's getting harder and harder to judge with Beetee, but I am positive that one mentor has never changed from the cunning manipulator she was in the Games. "Does she do this with all her tributes?"

"Quite often."

"I don't like it."

He gives another wry chuckle. "I'd say there's a lot of things in this world you don't like, Wiress, and that most of them are facts of life."

I choose to sulk in stubborn silence rather than respond. A few moments pass; then Beetee starts and reaches behind his chair for something.

"I almost forgot. Fabriola told me to give this to you."

He searches through a large bag and withdraws a river of faded grey. My dress. Gratefully I snatch it up, holding the threadbare fabric up to my face and inhaling the smoky aroma of home. Although I can barely remember it, I imagine this is what mother's embrace must have felt like.

"T-thank you," I murmur, hurrying from the room before he can see me cry, and not knowing why it should matter if he does.

As I lay in my unfamiliar bed, clinging tightly to the last bit of who I am, some of my disgust over Maybell's deceit cools into a quiet defiance. It's the same subdued but powerful stirring I felt when remaining in this gown on the train, when facing the Capitol cameras with my district token in hand, when I envision being lifted from the arena with not a kill to my name. I'm not sure about Arkel, but I know enough about myself to be convinced that Maybell's assessment was only half-right. She did not trick me into shedding a mask. I never wore one. I may take up a weapon, but I am determined never to present myself as anything other than what I am. A lowly district girl with an improbable goal.

The thought that I may at least die as myself provides some consolation as the tears carry me to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi, everyone! New chapter (obviously) and I've tried to cut down with the purple prose in this one. It's hard, believe me. I get so addicted to those long, flowy, adjective-bogged-down sentences. :P **

**Once again, a tremendous thank you to my readers, reviewers, and favorite-ers/story alert-ers. I wouldn't be writing if it wasn't for you! **

**Credit for the characters Thew Canda and Shiran Kirkland, who were mentioned last chapter, goes to Number One Fan of Journey and her FanFictions **_**Brutal **_**and **_**Miserable. **_

**Finally, I'd like to recommend the fic **_**Unintended **_**by Caisha702, who's been immensely helpful with encouraging me to actually write this thing. Her story is about Paylor and the rebellion in District 8, and has a cameo of one of my (minor) characters! **

~~0~~

I've heard all my life that tributes gradually grow numb in the arena. While it's something I hope to avoid, I can't help but wonder if it hasn't already happened when I wake up the following morning and the tears don't come. There's still a dead weight in my heart, but it's as if I've already poured out so much emotion that there's no longer any point in crying. I know what's at stake; I know what I've got to lose; I know the most likely outcome. Hysterics will just make it more painful.

Slightly unsettled by this calm in the storm, I change and shower before meeting in the dining room. Maybell has returned, but refuses to interact with either me or Arkel. Although I'd still rather she treat me like a person, I quickly decide that being blatantly ignored is better than mercilessly insulted.

All too soon, it's time to return to training. Beetee takes Arkel aside and whispers to him for a while, then turns to me as Gallus herds us over to the elevator.

"Remember, one weapon station," Beetee advises. "It only has to be one."

"Right."

He shoots me a nod as the doors slide shut. It takes me a few moments to realize I automatically took his gesture as encouragement, and even longer to admonish myself for it.

_No matter what he seems, Wiress, _I remind myself, _he's still a killer. And by wanting you to survive, he's trying to make you into one as well. _

I cling to this like a mantra as we shoot downwards to the gymnasium.

~~0~~

About half the tributes have already arrived and are fanning out among the various stations when we arrive. Arkel announces in his usual timid mutter that Beetee told him to try tree-climbing today, then hurries off in its direction. I don't doubt that he's good at it if his gang were the culprits responsible for hanging the mayor's best suit from the flagpole last summer. If that's the case, then the fact that our mayor isn't overly fond of public hangings is probably the only reason he's still alive.

_At least for a while longer, _whispers a morbid inner voice. I stride off, perhaps a little more briskly than usual, to prevent similar thoughts from distracting me. Focus has never been so crucial.

Deciding to get weapons over with as soon as possible, I settle on archery. There's another tribute at the station – the girl from 7, who shows a reasonable amount of skill – but she doesn't look hostile enough for me to shy away. I suppose it's unwise to let an 'opponent' in on any of my possible strengths, but it isn't likely that I'll be proficient enough for her to view me as a threat. Moreover, out of all the weapons nearby, this is the only one light enough to handle.

The trainer demonstrates how to work the bow and fires several shots into a dummy. The shafts sink deep into its chest, feathery ends protruding grotesquely from the canvas. It takes all my willpower to push aside the mental image of myself lying prone on the ground with an arrow through my skull.

When she's finished, I take a weapon. It's difficult to emulate the trainer's, or even the seven's, balance and control. Attempting to steady myself with a deep breath, I let the arrow fly and pray it so much as grazes the target.

It doesn't.

"L-let me go again," I plead of no one in particular. The trainer, obviously used to this kind of inexperience, isn't even watching. Swiftly losing this morning's composure, I fire again.

This try is, if possible, even worse. The arrow slips out early, and before I can react, the bowstring snaps back and lashes me across the face. I let the weapon clatter to the floor and instinctively rub the red mark linking my forehead and lower lip. Hopefully the other tributes have better things to do than watch me fail, but I can almost feel disdainful eyes singing my back like fiery darts.

The next hour proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that my aim is abysmal. I shoot arrows until my fingers are indented with the mark of the bowstring; I try my hand at slingshots, throwing stars, knives; desperation drives me to hurl rocks at dummies. Nothing works. Apparently the dexterity I've developed from working in the factories is good for threading wires but not saving my own life.

As my anxiety builds, a new fear emerges. How could I not have seen it before? Beetee's entire plan relies on the idea that possessing a long-range weapon will not only gain me sponsors but keep the competition away. If I get a high enough training score, they might put two and two together, assume I'm a good shot, and make sure to avoid me, therefore reducing the likelihood I'll even have to fire an arrow. But clearly this won't be the case. I can't hope for a decent score with anything requiring aim. Meaning that the only weapons left available to me are those which rely on brute strength.

The whole illusion, this absurd belief that I'll be able to scrape my way to victory by pretending to be half-decent at combat, crumbles. Nobody in their right mind would see the scrawny girl from District 3 as capable of wielding a sword or mace. Yet it's equally ridiculous to assume I'll strike fear into anyone's hearts with today's performance with aim-based weapons. Strength or aim, strength or aim? Unless I find some sort of happy medium, I'm bound for failure.

Still unsure why I haven't given up yet, I scan the surrounding stations. Most of the nearby weapons are currently in the hands of the careers. District 1's boy launches axes at targets. The girl from 2 whips her broadsword around with such natural grace it appears no weightier than a feather. More disturbing than them all is District 4, smiling in savage glee as she reduces a dummy to shreds with a morningstar. I wonder if she notices the nearby tributes watching her in horror. She probably does.

The only place unoccupied by any of them is a small section to the side of the spears station. A brief evaluation proves that it's most likely my best bet. The models offered are slimmer and shorter than their counterparts currently wielded by the girl from 1 and boy from 4, but there's no doubt that the lethally pointed tips could inflict serious damage. I'll have to be closer to an opponent than I'd like to use one properly, but they still provide more space than, say, a knife. Not to mention it's not quite as aim-based as the arrows which gave me so much trouble.

I must be a sight, approaching the spear station – at least a head below the shortest career, gangly and thin, no doubt ashen with worry. My arrival sends the trainer into a long explanation of how to grip the spear and make basic motions. I listen avidly, knowing each word is more precious than the sugar buns we children received when Beetee won his Games twelve years ago. Memorizing his instructions is certainly the easy part, but at least it's something I'm good at.

Once he's finished his spiel, I'm given a weapon to practice with. The spear and the implications of what I'm to do with it are heavier than I'd expected. "Do you have, um, a lighter model?"

The trainer raises an eyebrow. "That's the smallest one we have."

"It is?" My hopes of succeeding dwindle from minimal to virtually nonexistent. Forget about hitting the dummy; I'll be lucky if I can lift the thing an inch.

Keenly aware of its foreign feel in my hands, I raise the spear to eye level and pull back my arm. Already the sleek wood is damp with sweat. _Pull back ... firm grip ... go! _

The next instant, I'm lying face-down on something soft and bulky, having somehow launched myself at the target and knocked it to the ground. My fist is still clenched fiercely around the spear. Its head is buried in the dummy's heart.

Just as I process this, there comes a low chuckling from behind me. I leap to my feet. Orford from Ten is leaning casually against one of the stands, presumably having watched me the whole time.

"Not bad," he says kindly, "but you could have gone deeper. Want a little help?"

I weigh his offer in my mind. From what I've witnessed of him, he seems to be a genuinely good person. His obvious physical advantage in the Games causes me to be slightly wary, but there's another emotion stronger than my fear. It's a deep longing to believe that at least one other tribute hasn't completely abandoned their morals. I'm obviously not going to ally with him, but between Fabriola's harsh honesty, my inability to understand Beetee, and Maybell being Maybell, it would be an immense relief to have someone I can trust. To rely on like I've only been able to do with Talee.

"All right," I accept. "What should I have done?"

"Well, for starters, you were holding it too tightly," he begins, sliding the spear effortlessly out of the dummy. "Just look at the sweat on this thing; you had it in a death grip. Try holding it like you would a pencil."

_Now that's a weapon I'm more comfortable with, _I think, taking the spear from his outstretched hand and relaxing my grasp. "Now?"

"Now you're going to want to hold it at its balance point," Orford continues. "It's about two-"

"-Two thirds of the way to the tip," I mutter, cursing myself for forgetting part of the trainer's lecture. I suppose it slipped away when my fears took over. "And I can find it by balancing it on my palm."

"See, you're a natural already."

The lesson continues, with Orford walking me patiently through various steps I'd forgotten in my anxiety. Surprisingly gentle for his immense size, he positions my arms, legs and shoulders so that I'm slightly sideways from the target, one foot in front of the other, with my knees slightly bent. More confident now that I'm following remembered instructions, I twist my upper body and thrust my arm forwards.

My eyes are closed at the exact moment of impact, but the sudden stop and grotesquely satisfying crunch tells me I've hit the target. The sound unleashes a rush of relief, washing through my body like warm water. "How'd I do?"

"Deeper than last time," Orford announces, examining the puncture mark. "You'll still need plenty of work, of course, if you want to permanently disable someone-"

The warm relief turns to ice. "Don't say that."

"Eh? I get that you're squeamish, but-"

"Just _don't say that. _Please. I'm not..." I drop my voice and, taking the hint, he moves in closer. "I'm not planning on doing any ... you know ... in the arena. I can't ..."

Orford furrows his eyebrows and looks meditatively at the speared dummy. He doesn't talk for several minutes, throughout all of which I question the wisdom of revealing my plans to a near-stranger who may or may not be willing to kill me in several days' time. I might be firm in my convictions, but I'm aware that to another, particularly one with such a chance at victory, I likely come off as a weakling or a coward. To my surprise, however, when he looks back, it's with a slightly sad smile.

"Terra says I'm a fool for helping people out," he admits, inclining his head towards his district partner across the room. "But I just like the playing field to be equal, you know? Give everyone a better chance; make it a little more fair. That's what I'm aiming for." A brief pause. "So, if my damned fool idealism can carry through, maybe yours will too. Anything can happen."

I mouth stupidly for a moment, unable to come up with anything to match what he's said. "I – good luck."

"Thanks." Still smiling, he turns to leave. "Just remember, I'll still be fighting as hard as the best of them in the arena. You'd do well to do the same."

~~0~~

"What's going on out there?" Arkel wonders as we return our trays to the pile. The majority of the tributes are still finishing their lunch, but several have gathered around one of the large sparring areas in the gym. No trainers are present, and from what I can tell, most of the assembled are Careers.

"I don't know, but we'd better steer clear. There's no telling what they'll do." I tug on his sleeve and start nudging him towards the station farthest from the others. "Come on. We might as well use our time wisely. Let's practice edible plants."

To my dismay, we don't leave the safety of the dining room unnoticed. No sooner have we stepped outside then we're seized by the sharp eyes of the boy from 4.

"Look, there're two of them right now," he snaps at the girl from his district. "If you want to give them a show, you'd better get a move on."

"It's not the Twelve, though," counters the girl from 1.

"He'll be here soon enough," the other argues.

_The Twelve. _I'm already certain it's the seemingly fearless young boy whom they're referring to. At breakfast this morning we witnessed three television advertisements for him alone, with only one for each Career district. This inordinate amount of focus, plus the humiliation handed to all of their districts by his mentor last year, has swiftly made him an undeserving target of their ire.

A wicked smirk twists the face of the redheaded girl from Four. "I'm with Marinus on this one, Two. Let's get going for our audience. If we start out slow, the Twelve will be here soon and he can watch a bit of what he'll get come Game time."

The girl from 2 narrows her eyes. I can't help but notice that she seems a complete contrast to her fellows from 4. Whereas they're noticeably impatient for whatever sick entertainment the group has in mind, she maintains self-control, cold and detached as an ice statue.

"You must be both deaf and stupid, Vellamo, since I believe I already made my position clear," she retorts with chilling calmness. "The answer is no."

"And why's that?" Four sneers.

"I see no reason to explain myself to you."

"Listen to her, Tethys," interjects the boy from Two quietly. "She already said she doesn't want to."

His district partner shoots him a sharp glance, but for whatever reason says nothing to reinforce it. Four, ignoring him completely, drags a sword from its stand near the edge of the mat. I'm certain I don't imagine her allowing its blade to scrape ominously against the metal. "Do you know what I think, Euthalia Concord?"

"Very little."

Either ignoring or not grasping the Two's insult – somehow I assume it's the latter – the girl surnamed Vellamo storms closer towards her.

"I think it's because you're scared. Yeah, you heard me. You know what'll happen when you take me on for real and you want to save yourself the humiliation here, while you can still hide behind your district partner." She jabs a finger at the young man from Two, who pales and stammers in protest. Euthalia merely rolls her eyes.

"That's possible. It's also possible that I'm aware what happens to those who defy the Capitol's rules, and I'd rather not be sent to the arena handicapped for fighting another tribute before the starting gong."

Four gives a contemptuous snort. She must realize she's been beaten, but her pride urges her on.

"I don't see any trainers around," she snarls. "You're scared of embarrassing yourself in front of bloodbath victims?"

I swiftly return my attention to the edible plants, hoping to tune out their argument amidst the leaves and berries. But it's impossible. I never thought I'd see myself side with a Career, but just for that one remark, I want the Two to go back on her word and knock the Four to the ground.

"If they pose so little threat," she responds icily, "why waste time and energy intimidating them? I have confidence enough in my skills that I don't need to resort to threatening untrained children in order to feel better about myself."

Vellamo's retort is cut off by the boy from 1. "Ladies, please. It's not worth it. The trainers are coming back, anyway."

The sound of approaching footsteps confirms he's right. Curiosity getting the better of me, I glance back up to see the Four lividly shoving her sword back into its scabbard, while Two folds her arms in the picture of supreme indifference.

I realize I'm learning more and more about my deadliest opponents each day, despite my refusal to have anything to do with them. Two's composure, Four's rage, One's casual demeanour – they're all different dimensions of the killers I've watched year after year. And I'm not sure which one terrifies me most.

~~0~~

After helping Arkel through the basics of what's safe to eat in the arena, I move on to the survival stations I either didn't cover or didn't master yesterday. My first station is traps, with which I am pleased to discover I have considerable talent. The basic snares come easily, so I move on to a contraption which will hoist a large animal – _or another tribute, _whispers that despised inner voice – into a tree by its leg or neck. I guess I shouldn't be surprised at my newfound skill. Haven't I been tying and tangling wires in the factories since I was just a child?

Tantalized by the thought of having fresh meat in the arena, I return to the spear station again – just catching something won't kill it, after all – and then review skinning and cooking. Fire-starting again proves a challenge, but after a while I manage to coax flames out of pieces of wood by rubbing them together. It's a lengthy process, and perhaps I'm being foolish to turn to it, but at least the sparks aren't as sudden and unexpected as those produced by matches. I also learn how to create something called a Dakota pit; a fire buried in a ditch with only small holes for oxygen access. I'm sure it will be invaluable in keeping warm while staying hidden.

By the end of the day, I'm confident that if the Hunger Games was a survival-based challenge alone, I would be among the most popular tributes in terms of sponsors. Although weighed down by the knowledge that it still won't be enough, I leave in higher spirits than the day before.

~~0~~

The evening finds me cross-legged on the couch in the District Three sitting room. Dinner is over, I've had my private session with Beetee, and so there's nothing much else to do but sit and wait for bedtime. Of course, there's the television to keep us entertained, but between reaping recaps, last year's interviews, and speculation on whether or not Jash from Twelve will pull another Haymitch Abernathy, nothing's playing that doesn't make me want to vomit.

A soft plop near the end of the couch announces the new arrival. It's Arkel, looking dejected as usual. I consider asking him how training went, but deep down I already know the answer.

"...Anything on your mind?" I probe after a while. _Obviously. _

He shrugs. "The arena. What else?"

I nod, understanding. "I know I said this before, but ... I'm sorry I don't want an alliance. It's not anything to do with you, remember?"

I'd told him shortly after training today. It hadn't been as difficult as I'd feared. I'd explained everything to him, how I can't afford to place myself in a position where I can easily kill someone, and he'd just shrugged and said that was okay. I couldn't tell if he was faking or not.

"Yeah, I know," he says emotionlessly. "It's fine."

A few minutes of silence go by before he speaks up again.

"Has the boy from Ten come to see you yet? He's been going around to all the stations, helping people with stuff. Combat, mostly."

"Yeah, he has," I answer. "At spear-throwing. You?"

"Mm-hmm. I wasn't going to try any weapons, but he sort of roped me into it. Said I should give myself as much of a chance as everybody else." He looks at his feet. "Needless to say, I was awful."

"I wasn't much better."

"It's sort of funny, what he's doing. Do you think we can trust him?"

"Trust him?" I honestly don't know. He is another tribute, and he did promise to fight as hard as the rest, but surely that just applies to self-defence? "I'm not sure, but I think so. I saw him comfort a crying girl on the chariots. We both know he's willing to help others out. I don't think someone like that would kill another person to get home."

"You're right. He wouldn't do that."

I raise an eyebrow. "Didn't you just say you thought he was suspicious?"

"Did I? Well, you made me change my mind."

I've caught onto it now, the reason why he's such a puzzle. It's that there's nothing within him to puzzle over. Letting Gallus boss him around, not bothering to defend himself from Maybell's criticism, following me blindly around training – it's as if he truly believes he is what the Capitol says he is. Not an individual, but a faceless, meaningless pawn.

"What if I said he wasn't trustworthy?" I propose, trying to test him.

"Well, then I'd agr - look, why are you doing this anyway?"

"I don't really know," I confess awkwardly. "But it's like what I said on the train, with my dress. I want to stay myself through all of this. And ... well, there's no reason why you shouldn't, either."

Arkel gives a humorless snort that may be the closest I've ever heard him get to a laugh. "Okay. Tell me how to do that."

"Um ..." How can I claim to see the other tributes as more than game pieces when I know so very little about the person chosen to die beside me? "Be like how you were before? A little, I don't know, mischievous, maybe?"

"The thing is, I don't know if that was ever me," the boy admits. Gaze dropping to the floor, he laces his fingers together, then uncrosses them, as if trying to distract himself. "I never really enjoyed any of that. I went along with it, obviously, but what else was I supposed to do? The scrawny little teacher's pet never gets anywhere in the slums, especially not when you're an orphan to boot."

My stomach twists uncomfortably. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Don't be," he mutters. "They died when I was a baby. Factory accident. I didn't know them as much as my brothers did. We managed all right by ourselves. It's not like we couldn't keep the house or anything. But then all three of us working wasn't enough, and they had to have most of the rations in order to keep strong for the factories, and I wasn't old enough for tesserae ... well, it seemed better than going hungry."

"You stole food?"

"Sometimes. Mostly they made me be the decoy. I was the expendable one; we all knew it. I'd knock stuff over, ring doorbells, cause any sort of distraction, and then run away. I was pretty good at it."

"I can imagine." _He must have been, never to have gotten caught and sentenced to death. _It then dawns on me that he already has.

"I always got a bit of the share. Or, at least enough to keep me going. They walked all over me, but I just thought I was lucky to be part of it. I never realized, not until now, but ... it really was just a bunch of following. Pretending to be whatever I had to be. Doing whatever I was told without a single thought of my own. I got so used to it; it's all I've ever done."

"And it's the same here," he continues. "With Maybell and Gallus and my stylist and even Beetee. Most of them treat us like crap, but it's no different from home. I know they're right, anyway, so there's no point in arguing. Why should I change if I'm going to be dead in a couple days?"

"Maybe that's all the reason to do so," I offer softly.

Arkel sighs and stares thoughtfully into the crackling fireplace. When he looks back at me, the misery on his face has melted slightly into a sad, tentative smile.

"I like that about you, Wiress," he says quietly. "I have since you didn't change out of that dress on the train. And I wish I could be like that, believe me. But I can't. I'm scared. I know I won't make it home and it terrifies me. That's all I can think of, day in and day out. Call me weak, but _I don't want to die._"

"Neither do I," I murmur. "Neither do I."

~~0~~

"Think it's almost time?" asks Arkel nervously.

I shake my head, unsure. The last half-day of training has flown by, and, ready or not, each tribute now has to face the Gamemakers to determine their training score. I've filled my entire morning with last-minute practice, going over fire-starting and shelter-building again and again. I took another shot at the spear-throwing station as well, but didn't get any closer to mastery.

That is something the most recent tribute to be called certainly possesses. The girl from 2 – if I remember correctly from yesterday, her name is Euthalia – has awed us all these past three days with unrivalled swordsmanship. She keeps unnecessary movement to a minimum, seeming to predict the trainer's every action so that every time her sword strikes, it hits its mark. While it's certainly not admirable, there's an elegance to it that keeps me equally spellbound and repulsed. I can only imagine both of our scores will look pitiful compared to hers.

The only one who might be able to rival her is the female from Four. I almost wish they would have fought yesterday, just to free me from the tension of wondering which is my most formidable opponent. At the moment, she has occupied herself with personally intimidating each competitor. She's having no luck with Ciara and Fidda, however. Laughing and chatting, they seem almost immune to the world around them, as if they're in my school's cafeteria rather than the training centre's.

"Arkel Schmidt!"

My district partner's face blanches as the trainer barks his name. My usual surge of pity is accompanied by a squeeze of Arkel's hand. I force what I hope is an encouraging smile onto my face. "Hope you do well."

"Thanks," he replies almost inaudibly. "Er, you too."

He disappears into the gymnasium, visibly trembling. Last night's discussion hasn't been brought up at all between us, but I hope that he knows that, despite not liking his aversion to self-worth, I don't begrudge him at all for his fear.

Now that he's gone, I start going over what I'll do for the Gamemakers. Build a shelter, start a fire, go through the edible plants. Demonstrating traps and camouflage will be my number one priority. I'm not hoping for an amazing score, but hopefully my expertise with survival skills will place me somewhere mid-range. There's not much more I can expect without mastery of a weapon. It won't be enough to make the other tributes fear me, but at least it may attract a few sponsors.

"Wiress Bentell!"

_Whatever Arkel showed them, it didn't take too long. _Thinking of those stations I've excelled at in hopes that my confidence will show in my face, I rise and make my way to the gym.

There they are, a vast array of them laid out before me: the items that may save my life. The people with the power to end it form an ominous purple row in the elevated seats. _What is it like_, I can't help from wondering, _just sitting there in safety and watching tributes prepare themselves for death, year after year? Do they even understand? Can they even feel?_

All at once, the urge to be in their place, watching this nightmare unfold from a distance or on a TV screen, threatens to overwhelm me. I don't want to do this. I don't want to act skilled and smart just to convince the Capitol my life is worth saving. I want to break down crying, watch them stare in derision or confusion, make them realize even a tiny bit what they're doing. More than anything, I want to go home.

As usual, the thought of dad and Talee is what pushes me onward. I imagine them watching tonight's broadcast; he wringing his hands, she leaning forwards with eyes glued avidly to the screen. Terrifying as the arena seems, it's surely nothing compared to how my sister would react if I let my fear get in the way of a decent score.

I start with edible plants. After sorting the samples into poisonous and edible rows, I chance a covert glance up at the Gamemakers. I don't want to get too distracted with trying to please them, but their nods are a welcome sign that I've done something right.

The predictable rhythms of work, in many ways quite similar to those I'm used to from home, begin to ease away my apprehension. Fifteen minutes later, I've skinned and divided up the 'meat' of a synthetic rabbit carcass, set up two types of shelters, treated a dummy's fake burns and broken arm and set up a variety of snares.

Fire starting proves a challenge. I don't want to waste time with the tedious stick-rubbing method, but if I go for the matches, it'll be painfully obvious I don't know what I'm doing. When the most I've got going for me is survival skills, I can't risk seeming inexperienced with them, too. In the end, I panic and go for one of the electrical methods. It's not like I'm going to find any such supplies in the arena unless they're donated, though. As a last resort, I build a Dakota pit fire in the hope it'll compensate for my hesitation.

I get my first real surprise with the stealth-and-camouflage station. To my immense satisfaction, the Gamemakers scribble madly during the long minutes I spend hidden amidst the fake environments. It's with a mounting sense of confidence, therefore, that I whip aside the jungle backdrop to reveal one quite unexpected.

_A desert. _A strange numbness overtakes my mind. I've spent my full three days here hoping for an arena with plenty of cover. If this background is any indication as to what the arena will be like, I might as well die at the bloodbath.

What to do now? I could quit this station – I've done well enough as it is – and move on to something else. But the question of how I will survive if the arena is indeed a wasteland drives me back towards the camouflage paints.

Sorting through the pails of mostly brown and green, I discover a grainy beige substance no doubt meant to emulate sand. Once my skin is thoroughly dusted, I tuck most of my hair beneath my shirt – no color will stand out in a desert like pitch black – and shower the rest of it in more 'sand.' It's far from the level of concealment a nice, shadowy forest will provide, but at least it's something.

Next, I clear away the synthetic foliage and spill the rest of the powder on the floor. Buried behind the rest of the props are several 'boulders' shabbily constructed from some hard material. Apparently camouflage isn't popular enough among tributes to warrant much attention to the quality of its supplies. These I place haphazardly around my mini-desert, hoping their arrangement is random enough to appear natural. Finally, I crouch down among the rocks and lull my breathing rate to a scarcely noticeable low.

The rapid scratching of Gamemakers' pens confirms I've exceeded expectations. Relieved, I practically leap out of my cramped position and turn to the spear-throwing station. Finally, this ordeal is almost over.

For only the fourth time in my life, I slide the slender weapon from its holder. I still can't get over how alien it feels in my hands. Almost as if my arm has been chopped off and replaced with an unfamiliar limb.

I pace towards the dummy, positioning myself like Orford instructed and trying to reassure myself that I won't be doing this to a human being in several days' time. _It's just to get sponsors. So I'll have more food; so I won't have to go looking for some; so I won't have to threaten anybody for some. So I can kill a mutt. Or, if it comes to it, a Career. _

As my heartbeat thunders in my ears, it morphs into the applause of thousands of Capitolians, each one screaming with approval as I corner my defenceless target. The spear is poised, ready to throw. Ready to kill. But whom? Arkel? Ciara or Fidda? The little boy from Twelve? Their faces dance through my mind, first pleading, then judging, condemning...

_No. It's just a mutt. A freaking mutt. Stab it through the heart. _

My hands tremble.

_It's a mutt. Youcandothis. _

I close my eyes and stab.

The arena disappears. I'm back in the training center, only now aware of how hard I'm breathing. My weapon clatters to the floor, missing its target by at least a meter.

Anger and desperation rise in me like a flame. Without the slightest idea of what I'm doing, I seize another spear and plunge it into the dummy's chest. The sickening rip of fabric as the stone tip tears through its back does nothing to satisfy me. _As if anyone's going to stand there and just let me run them through. _

Nothing more than a stunned silence emanates from the Gamemakers' podium. I can't bear to look up at their inevitable derision. Thoroughly humiliated, I turn away from the entire mess and head for the exit.

Only the elevator witnesses my tears.

~~0~~

"Wiress?" Beetee's voice follows a hesitant knock on the door. "Are you in there?"

I scrunch closer to the wall, arms curled defensively around my knees. Redness lingers tellingly in my eyes. The hours that have elapsed since training have soothed a downpour into a trickle. However, I'm still not ready to leave the relative peace of the bedroom for the pre-Games frenzy, especially not after my loss of control.

"Maybe."

"Can I come in?"

"I don't want to see anybody. At least not until I have to."

"Well. The training scores are on in ten minutes. You might want to come out for those."

I sigh, knowing the truth of what he says but still unwilling to budge. "I don't care. I already know I'm not scoring anything sponsor-worthy, so what's the point?"

"You haven't been this dejected since after the opening ceremony." A brief pause, as if he's unsure how to proceed. "Anything happen in there?"

"I did all right, unless you count the part where I stabbed a dummy and nearly went into hysterics in front of some of the most powerful people in the country."

"Very few tributes make it through the entirety of the pre-Games without some sort of breakdown," Beetee responds matter-of-factly. "They'll have seen this countless times before. Trust me."

"They've also given out countless twos and threes."

A scowl. What little patience he's mustered over the past day or two is clearly beginning to fray.

"I can't make you come out of there. It's you who has to make the choice. But seeing as it'll take more courage than this to step off the starting plate in a couple of days, I'd take the jump now."

Just as I did four days earlier after a conversation uncannily similar to this, I force myself out of the bed and trail reluctantly after my mentor. Was it really such a short time ago that his growling persuaded me to watch the reaping recaps? Now, not even a week later, the frightened tributes I watched ascend to the stage are to have their chances of survival declared before the entire nation. A week later, this close to the arena, and I can't even remember all their names.

~~0~~

The violently pink host of the recaps bounces onscreen just as I seat myself on the couch. Arkel occupies the other end, silent and disquietingly pale. Beetee drifts off to lurk in one of the corners, while Maybell blesses us all with her unexpected arrival, staggering in drunkenly from the kitchen. I wonder whether she's truly intoxicated or whether this is just another test. The scent of alcohol is pungent, but that could merely be from the dozen bottles she always leaves half-opened on the counters.

"Things are really heating up, with our top five tributes' sponsorships skyrocketing as I speak!" trills the announcer. She flails an arm at an animated graph to her right, showing bars topped with mostly Career faces rising at dizzying speeds. Every so often, one of the unmarked lines showing everyone else's potential sponsorship inches several spaces up. I can't tear my eyes away from the motionless stubs at the very bottom, wondering if one of them is mine.

_You have to be doing better than that, _I tell myself without any real conviction. _Your chances at combat might be ruined, but you still did very well at most everything else. And Beetee said day before yesterday that you weren't doing awfully. _

Capitol-lady announces that the girls from Two and Four are currently vying for first place, with the boy from One, boy from Four and Orford following. She then goes out of her way to remind us that little Jash is "getting up there as well!" though neglects to inform us of his placement, likely because it's not as stellar as his supporters might hope. After several more minutes of gushing about District Twelve, the Capitol seal bursts on screen to a drum roll. The sound meant to arouse excitement among the viewers holds only dread for me.

The boy and girl from District One set the bar high by scoring a 9 and 8 respectively. District Two's boy matches the score before him, and when the vivid 10 appears beneath his female counterpart's picture, my anxiety solidifies into ice.

"No surprises there," I hear Beetee mutter, echoing my thoughts. Her skill with a sword was unparalleled by anything I've ever seen in the Games. All I can think of is how quickly it will be over if I end up beside her podium in the arena.

"Ah, I'm late!" screeches an unwelcome voice. Gallus barges through the door, panting overdramatically, and plops down between Arkel and I just as Euthalia's picture disappears. "I was down at The Fuchsia Flamingowith Blasius and Aquila-"

The number 3 flashes up beneath Arkel's picture.

"Oooh, tough luck," our escort groans. "Couldn't expect much more, though, so I'd be happy if I were you. Anyways, I was telling-"

"Thank you, Gallus, for placing such importance on your tributes," Beetee cuts in acidly. "I can only hope you were demonstrating this same commitment by rallying sponsors in the Club. Now if you're finished, we still have one more score to see."

The rush of gratitude I feel towards him is too familiar for me to be comfortable with. Moments later, these mixed emotions give way to relief as a 6 flashes onto the screen.

"Halfway," I whisper to myself. This is the best score I could have reasonably hoped for. I've never known a tribute to score higher than a 5 without possessing great expertise in a certain area. My survival skills, particularly traps and camouflage, must have been enough to push me to the midpoint. Most importantly, while it's pleasingly high for a non-Career, it's not enough of a threat to gain me unwanted attention from opponents.

The thought of dad and Talee, watching this back home, springs to the forefront of my mind. I hope they're as satisfied as I am. I'm certain my sister is either cursing me or shouting that she knew I could do it. If only I could see them again, just to reassure them not to worry, that this score is more than enough.

Strangely light, I glance around the room at the others. Beetee nods with what might be a trace of a smile; Gallus' complaints fall on deaf ears; Maybell merely stares drunkenly off into space. The sight of Arkel, however, dims my euphoria. Despair is written in the listless droop of his posture and sagging face. He stares vacantly at the floor, unseeing.

"Hey," I murmur, unsure both of what I'm supposed to do and why I'm the only one bothering to comfort him. I guess I'm foolish to expect much from the rest of them. "It ... it's okay. I'm sorry. About my training score. I mean-"

"You don't have to apologize," says Arkel hollowly, dragging his gaze up from the ground as if it requires the last of his strength. To my surprise, he attempts a brave smile, though it's marred by obvious misery. "I knew what was coming, anyway. Good job with yours."

"Thanks," I respond. "But don't forget, some people have won with threes before. There was one kid a few years back, that one from Five."

"Please, don't try to make it seem-"

"She's right," interrupts Beetee, apparently deciding he can jump in now. "You never know what'll happen in the arena."

"I can't see that there's anything to be happy about," pouts Gallus. "Think beyond yourselves, children. How do you think this is affecting my reputation among the circles of-"

"Focus. Scores." Beetee cuts across him for the second time. "The Fours got a 9 and an 11."

"Eleven?" I exclaim. "Higher than the girl from Two?"

"Apparently so."

Even as I spoke, the Four's triumph began to make sense. The Two always demonstrated a skillful restraint, using as little time and energy as possible to disarm the trainers. On the other hand, Four never missed the opportunity to show off and toy with her victims. I can imagine it was no different before the Gamemakers. Obviously they are more impressed by savagery than subtlety. I can't say I prefer either.

Presently, the boy from Five's six is replaced by a four beneath Ciara's cheery face. The Sixes perform poorly, while both Sevens are fortunate enough to score their district number. I wince as terrified Dimity from Eight receives a three. The boy from Nine manages a noteworthy seven. Fidda matches her ally's four.

I'm not surprised as matching nines testify to the strength and skill of both from Ten. Knowing that Orford is on par with all but two of the Careers, I recall his sense of honor with relief. That's one formidable tribute whom I can trust not to come after me at the gong.

The entire room seems to hold its breath as Jash's picture appears, wondering if the much-lauded boy from Twelve possesses talent to match his courage. Regrettably, I am not surprised when he pulls a 2.

Imagining what will happen to the boy when the Careers discover he has no way to defend himself is painful. They already hate him for stealing their spotlight, particularly the Fours, and once they realize his praise is unwarranted, I have no doubt their vengeance will be brutal. I can only hope he is playing us all for fools by hiding his strengths. _He's just a child, _I think, despising the Capitol on a new level for the unfair burden they have placed upon him. _He's done nothing to deserve this. None of us have. _

"Well, looks like that's that," Gallus quips as the girl from 12's five fades away and Beetee flicks the television off. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I've had enough of this. If you want me, I'll be in the lounge."

Maybell mumbles something about knowing what she was doing when she abandoned us and follows him out of the room. For several minutes, the rest of us sit silently, listening to their retreat down the hallway. The fading sound of their footsteps, the descending silence, and the dim lighting combine with the stress of the day to make me realize how very tired I am. Not even after a six-hour factory shift has my head felt this heavy.

Beetee suddenly seems to figure out he's been left in charge of the both of us once again. "For the love of Panem, it's eight-thirty. You two should get some rest. It's been a long day, and tomorrow will be even longer."

Right. Interview preparation. There'll be angles to devise, poise and etiquette to practise. The thought of four hours alone with Gallus makes sleep beckon even more enticingly.

I uncross my legs to get up, but the cushions of the couch are so soft, and down the hall seems such a long way to walk...

"I'll go in a moment," I say childishly, curling against the armrest and pulling a blanket over my head. For one second, I'm five years old again, begging father for five more minutes before school. "Or ten."

Beetee's voice drifts from far away with a hint of amusement. "Suit yourself, Wiress."


	7. Chapter 7

**Urgh. This chapter. Just ... this chapter. I think it gave me more problems than the entire rest of the story combined. I'm not entirely pleased with it, but after months of trying to improve it and getting nowhere, I decided it's the best I can do and I should just post it instead of keeping everybody waiting. As usual, I apologize for the ridiculously long wait. Thanks a million to everyone who's still stuck around through the hiatuses, reviewed, and/or added to faves and alerts! Your comments mean the world to me! **

~~0~~

By the time I wake the following morning, warm sunlight is slanting through the windows of the room. As I drift back to consciousness, I realize I'm curled in a rather tight position, still wearing yesterday's clothes. I must have slept the entire night on the couch. A glance down at the opposite end reveals that Arkel has done the same.

I can't help but smile at the scene. Whereas this would be incredibly awkward back home, in the current situation there's nothing uncomfortable about waking up feet away from a boy my age. Fate has drawn us together as companions; fellow victims of its cruel game; nothing more. If anything, it's a slap in the Capitol's face that we feel trusting enough to sleep beside each other when we're technically supposed to be enemies.

A moment later, Beetee strides into the room. His gait is casual, but when he catches sight of the two of us still resting, it slows and softens. I peek over the back of the sofa to see him smiling gently, taking care to be as silent as possible as he takes out some cups and the coffee maker.

"I thought you two were still sleeping," he whispers when he notices me watching him. "Didn't want to ruin the moment before our esteemed escort does."

"Better let Arkel enjoy what time he can," I agree, half joking and half gravely serious.

"No, I'm up, I'm up," mumbles my district partner blearily. He wriggles out of the cocoon of blankets and stretches with a yawn. "What happens today? Interviews?"

"They're tomorrow," Beetee answers, with more solemnity than before. "It'll take all of today to prepare for them. You'll start with me, Arkel, and meet with Gallus in the afternoon. Vice-versa for you, Wiress."

_Wonderful. _I groan internally, though perhaps a little bit too much of it shows on my face, for Beetee gives a humorless chuckle and Arkel a nervous laugh. If I had a choice of any person with whom to spend my possible last days on earth, Gallus would definitely be in the bottom ten. The only bright side I can see is that at least Maybell is no longer my mentor. I can't help but wonder if an entire day with just the two of them would have made me beg for the arena.

~~0~~

I spend the next four hours of the day learning about presentation, which is just as frustrating and tiresome as I expected it to be. I almost want to ask Gallus what he finds so productive about wearing down his tribute's self-confidence the day before the interviews, because that seems to be all he's doing. Judging by the way he shrieks and moans over every move, a great deal of things I do instinctively are deplorable to the Capitolian eye. My gait is awkward, my steps too small, and I sit too far back in my seat, "as if you're afraid of the limelight!" What gives him the most grief is my apparent unwillingness to make eye contact, a trait I've never even noticed until he points it out that I'm letting my gaze wander around the room.

Hearing every aspect of my natural behavior torn to shreds proves just as dispiriting as weapons training. As hard as I try to tune him out, I can't ignore Gallus when he's in my face. It's with a great deal of relief that I finally leave for lunch, allowing every fastidious piece of advice he's given me to float out of my mind.

~~0~~

"So," begins Beetee, closing the door as Gallus' criticism of Arkel fades away down the hall, "how did you find presentation?"

"Awful," I admit, not seeing any point in lying. "Is it really going to go as badly as he makes it sound?"

Beetee snorts wryly. "At risk of sounding arrogant, I'd say to place more value on what you'll learn in this session. You've probably figured out by now that Gallus thinks the world revolves around him. He'd claim to be giving you the secret to victory if he was teaching you how to juggle."

Some of my tension eases. "So the entire Capitol won't be there with clipboards to evaluate every aspect of my posture?"

"Presentation_ is_ important," Beetee answers, greeting my attempt at humor with a firm look, "but what is the audience going to remember most when they're signing up for sponsorships? It's not how you walk across the stage that leaves a lasting impression; it's how you act."

"All right," I say. I can't shake the feeling that I'm merely leaving one alien shore for another. "And how's that?"

"Well, that's what we'll have to work out, isn't it?" My mentor adjusts his glasses and shifts position so that his chin is resting in his hands. He's scanning me, in what I take to be a cold, appraising way more connected to the killer of the 39th Hunger Games than the man who helped me up on stage. Without fully realizing it, I hug my knees in a defensive manner.

"At the moment," Beetee continues, "you've performed adequately for us – but for the Capitol, you're a blank slate. You didn't respond at the Opening Ceremony. You scored in the middle of the pack, which could mean a lot of things. This, I believe, has been the intention. To tantalize the viewers, leave them in the dark, make them want to learn more."

"Not really," I protest weakly. I feared he would criticize like Gallus, but this overestimation of my strategy seems unfairly demanding of me. "Well, yes, that was Fabriola's idea, but I – I haven't exactly lived up to it. I was more ... numb on the chariots, not aloof, and with training I was really just giving it my best shot and hoping I could scrape as high of a score as I could."

A pause, during which Beetee's expression is, as usual, unfathomable. Then, "Be that as it may, the audience doesn't know that. For all they can see, you've been planning this from the beginning. You've given us enough to work with, in any case. Now it's time to fill in the gaps. Show the audience what they've been waiting for." Another agonizingly long pause. "What do you think that is?"

"Y-you're asking me?"

"This is your interview, Wiress. What do you think would interest the Capitol?"

I don't like where this is heading. The prospect of adopting a fake onstage persona has never been something I'd consider easy, but even less so now that I'm here and memories of past interviews have begun to flit across my mind. For all the trembling, terrified tributes I've seen take the stage, there have always been many who excelled at the back-and-forth banter with Caesar Flickerman, whose angles shone like beckons for sponsorship money. The arrogant, the ruthless, the sadistic. The various breeds of killers.

Not all the angles were so worthy of contempt, of course. There have been the confident, the outgoing, the humorous or flirtatious. But it's all part of the same game, and the rationalizing behind it makes my skin crawl. Be funny or likeable or bloodthirsty and the Capitol will reward you. Because your life isn't worth saving unless you wear one of their masks.

"Nothing I would stoop to, that's for sure," I say distastefully.

"Meaning?"

"There's nothing about me that the Capitol would find interesting," – it's blunt, but true – "and I don't want to pretend to be something I'm not."

The old Beetee fully reappears in an irritable sigh. "We're not playing this game now, Wiress. You know as well as I do what the point of an interview is."

"Of course I do," I respond, as indignantly as I can, "but you're not going to make me act deadly, or cunning, or cocky, o-or – anything like that – just for the Capitol's sake."

"Did I ever say you had to have one of those angles?"

"They're all the same," I scoff. "I'm not going to be part of it. If I act like I care more about victory than morality, they'll expect it of me."

"They'll expect it of you in any case," counters Beetee testily. "You're a Hunger Games tribute. I don't expect you to go for a confrontational angle, but you're supposed to at least act like you care about your own survival."

"Not in the way the Capitol wants me to!"

Beetee lets out a noise of exasperation and clutches the sides of his head with his hands. The joints of his fingers tense as they clutch his thick, black hair. I may not be the most socially aware person, but I don't have to guess at what's going through his mind. It's all there in his cold, black eyes. He's judging. Blaming me for daring to care about my own conscience in the Hunger Games; hating me for being what he could not be.

I'm so entangled in these accusatory thoughts that I barely hear him when he does speak up.

"For someone so averse to acting," he murmurs, "you seem to be doing an awfully good job of it. You can drop it now."

"Drop what?" I ask, bewildered.

"You know," Beetee presses softly. "It's taken me a while to pinpoint it, but you've been doing it this entire time."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"This whole 'high-and-mighty' act," he explains. "I know you don't want to kill. I get that. I ... can respect that. But-"

Heat rushes across my face like I've just been slapped. "I am _not _high and mighty."

"All right," he replies, unconvinced. "Then tell me why you won't take up an angle."

"Because ... because it's like admitting you're a pawn."

"Everybody else is going to have one," Beetee counters, still in that gentle tone so ill-suited to a murderer. "That boy from 10 you admire. That little boy from 12; the girl from 8. Even Arkel. Are they pawns? Do you judge them, like you would anyone else who acts for the Capitol?"

"Of course not!" The idea is absurd, almost insulting.

"I see," says my mentor. "So these high moral standards only apply to you, then. You wouldn't allow yourself to sink so low, but it's perfectly acceptable if others do so."

"That's not it, either! It's-" I'm suddenly at a loss for words. What _is _it? I frantically search my mind for some sort of justification, some way to explain my beliefs without seeming judgmental or condemning of my fellow tributes.

I find none. Beetee has severed the threads holding up my self-righteous worldview, and it is only now that I realize their fragility. The faint smile spreading across his face confirms my fears that I've fallen straight into his trap.

"I don't know what I'm getting at," I admit, conceding defeat. "I never meant to seem ... superior. Especially not to the others. They don't-" _most of them don't _"-deserve this."

"I know," says Beetee, very quietly. He tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. "What I don't understand is why you feel you have to act like this with me. I'm your mentor. You should know that you can trust me."

_Can I? _All I know for certain is that I don't want to deal with this now. I never thought I'd miss his cold glares and icy silences, but I find they're what I'm yearning for more than anything at the moment. I need that excuse to distrust him, to continue seeing in black and white. This new Beetee, with his patience and sympathy and uncanny understanding of everything I'm feeling, adds a disquieting shade of grey. And it's exactly that feeling of growing comfort that increases my dislike of him. In spite of everything, I'm finding it harder and harder to hate him – and I desperately need to. With only two days left until the arena, I need the difference between moral and immoral to be clearly defined. If I show acceptance to killers, how long will it take me to accept killing?

"I – I can't."

"But why not? I'm on your side. What have I done to make you think otherwise?"

"I don't know. Just ... please, don't talk about this. Not now."

"All right, then, Wiress," he replies, and the part of me that's not struggling to loathe him detects what may be a hint of sadness. "But can you at least explain why you don't want to have an angle?" As if to placate me, he hastens to add, "If I can understand why you're so opposed to it, I – we – might be able to find something that works for you."

"Well," I begin, "It's just like..." I drag my feet meditatively over the floor, trying to conjure up some analogy with which to describe my feelings. The carpet is so rich; a brilliant cobalt blue with golden embroidery. I've never seen its equal, not even in the Justice Building. The only place in District Three that might house such luxury would be the Victor's Village. How fitting, then, to the Capitol, that so few are able to enjoy it. I assume that Beetee, with all his wealth, sees something like this every day, whereas some street urchins don't even have floors to walk over...

"It's like this," I burst out. "Imagine if you saw twenty-four starving children on the side of the road, and you had exactly that many pieces of bread. With all that food at your disposal, how would you decide to distribute it?" I stare straight at him, supposing that he may very well have been in this situation before. "Would you give it to the one who looked the nicest, or the one who told the best jokes, or the one strong enough to beat all the others up if they got more than him? Anybody with a crumb of human decency would try to help them all. There'd be no contest. But it's the exact opposite with sponsorship. It's the only time Capitolians actually bother to help us, and they make it into a competition of who deserves it most. When I'm sure they have more than enough money to sponsor every single tribute. It's sickening."

Silence on Beetee's part. Typically, his reaction is impossible to gauge. "Does – does that make any sense?"

"Absolutely," he responds softly. "I've told you this before, Wiress, and I'll say it again – you're very ... insightful. Not many people see things in the same way as you. It's quite a talent."

Somehow this prompts a wry laugh from me. "If only the Capitol would agree. I'd have the interview in the bag without having to pretend at all."

"You know why you can't do that," Beetee counters, though not unkindly. "As deep as it is, there's no place for that kind of sentiment in a contest for sponsorship. But I don't see why we can't go for a compromise. I know you don't want to lie about who you are, but how about some simple exaggeration?"

"What do you have in mind?" I ask hesitantly.

"You'll see," is all I get for an answer. A more serious tone hardens his voice. "First – and most importantly – we have to agree to work together on this. I can't make you see me as an ally, but if we're going to get anywhere, you have to at least recognize that I'm trying to help you. This won't work if you view everything I say as an attack on your personal ethics. Do I have your promise that you'll consider my advice, knowing that I'm keeping your best interests in mind?"

I stare down at the carpet again, deep in thought. At least half an hour has elapsed since this session began, and unless I take up Beetee's offer, I'll still be no closer to dad and Talee. Moreover, while I can't let myself forget whatever he did to win the Thirty-Ninth Hunger Games, the fact remains that for the first time, I'm unable to envision him urging me to follow in his footsteps. I've learned more about him in the past thirty minutes than I have all week. I may not know how I feel about this change in him, but I would be a fool to deny that it's happened.

"I promise."

"Thank you. And I, in turn, promise I'll do all I can to work within your moral comfort zones. Within reason, of course." He clears his throat formally. "Do we have a deal? As ... mentor and tribute?"

"All right, then." I nod. "Mentor and tribute."

~~0~~

"I think that's as about good as we're going to get," says Beetee, glancing at the clock whose hands signal the impending end of our session. "Arkel and Gallus will be back any moment now, and it's against protocol for me to give you more time than I did him, anyway." His face eases into what may be the closest thing to a smile I've ever seen him wear. "Have a little faith in yourself, Wiress. You did well."

"Thanks," I answer tiredly. Three-and-a-half hours of constant dialogue have left me more mentally wearied than any school exam or shift at the factory ever could. As I already knew from my lack of sociability back home, the language of numbers and calculations is far more comfortable to me than that of people. The angle I've been practicing is as close to my true personality as I could hope for – _all thanks to Beetee_, I admit – but it was still a struggle to come up with adequate replies to every one of his queries. Even more daunting was the thought that these responses may be my last shot at securing my survival. After all, I won't get much chance to impress sponsors in the arena.

"Just remember," he says, "Caesar Flickerman knows how to deal with nervous tributes. He's been doing it for nearly twenty years. If you find yourself in a situation where you don't know what to say, he'll help along until you do. Guaranteed."

"Okay." I certainly hope he's right.

"And don't shy away from saying something just because it seems strange. The more eccentric, the better. Remember what we're going for here: pensive, reserved, not completely unaffected, but not completely with it, either. If we embellish your intelligence enough and pull the right strings, I believe we can make this work."

I nod, too relieved this is over to continue the conversation. I have barely a moment to myself, however, before a worrisome thought pricks at my mind.

"Beetee?"

"Hm?"

"What if they ask me about my family?"

"They undoubtedly will, Wiress," he replies with slight surprise, looking up from cleaning his glasses. "We've already been through this. If the subject matter is uncomfortable, remain as collected as you can and allow Caesar to guide you to another topic."

"I know, but..." Now that the stress of finding and practicing an angle has begun to subdue, I've suddenly remembered that it's not only the sponsors who may be getting their final glimpse of me tomorrow. "There's no telling what will happen in the arena. If I end up next to a Career..." I gaze up at him beseechingly. "This may be the last opportunity I ever have to talk to them."

Beetee hesitates. "That's true. But you did agree that you'd be willing to compromise for the sake of the interview. This won't work if you start crying on national television."

"I won't." My nails dig into my palms; I pray he doesn't detect my lie. "But I can't die knowing I left things unsaid. I ... Didn't you feel the same way before you went in?"

My mentor sighs. "When you put it like that, there's really no way I can stop you. Contrary to what you seem to think, I'm not heartless. Just don't give the audience the impression that you're saying – whatever it is you'll say to your family – because you've given up. It's your own choice what you'll do in the arena, but nobody will sponsor a tribute who they don't think will do what it takes to win."

I wish I could tell him more. I wish I could say that I don't care what the audience thinks of me; that I have every right to speak to my family with the full understanding that I may not make it. So that if – or when – I die, they can be comforted by the knowledge that I preferred it to living as a murderer. For one time in this wretched week, I want to be completely free of the Capitol's corruption and lies.

In spite of this, something makes me hold my tongue. I'm not sure if it's pragmatism, the lure of sponsorship, or the acknowledgement that Beetee has done all that he possibly can to accommodate my non-violent approach. He's stretched my initial prejudice against him to its breaking point; asking for more when he's already surprised me so much would be ingratitude. Much as I hate to admit it; it's my turn to compromise.

~~0~~

_The lighting in the factory is dim; that at home, even more so. Winter nights stretch long and cold. With electricity being restricted to workplaces, mandatory broadcasts, and the residences of those with the best Capitol connections, our house is one of the many to go without. Dissatisfied with the darkness, I seek out my own light. _

"_I still can't see why you need to do this," Talee chides, ever practical. "There's plenty of warmth by the stove fire, and it's bright enough to do your homework. What's the point?"_

"_Personal satisfaction," I mutter, more focused on the elaborate set of wires than the impatient ten-year-old behind me. The stove fire may be adequate, but it's the fact that we have to resort to it that frustrates me. This isn't about practicality. It's about rebellion._

_It begins with a lightbulb, discovered in a trash bin behind the factory overseer's home. I'm taking the long way around the factory to avoid a rather ill-tempered peacekeeper when the pristine sphere of glass catches my eye. Nothing wrong with the thing – probably a size too small for his fixtures – and yet he discards it like garbage. But it's all the better for me. Several more weeks of scrounging and late nights, and my creation takes shape. _

"_Needs better wire," I conclude, observing the faint white glow with disappointment. "Something like ... tungsten. Yeah. Tungsten wire would work great here."_

"_Where in Panem do you expect to get that?" counters Talee. "Not exactly something you could sneak home from the factory."_

"_No," I muse thoughtfully, "but I bet one of my coworkers could." Everyone knows about the black market of sorts that goes on behind the authorities' backs. Basic appliances and supplies are stolen from large shipments and sold at reasonable prices for the district-goers. It may be illegal, but it's certainly fairer than Capitol-regulated trade. I'm positive at least one of my fellow workers has ties to it. "I've heard some ... rumors ... about Ilyia..." _

"_Ilyia Calcite?" Talee scoffs. "Let me know when you get along well enough with her to ask for a favor."_

_I make a face. Ilyia Calcite is one grade ahead of me in school, two workstations to my left in the factory, and about a world apart in personality. Although she's as much of a social misfit as I am, it took only one of her cutting remarks to convince me she deserves it. If I had it my way, I wouldn't go near that sour, pointed face and white-blonde hair for all the money in the world._

"_Not anytime soon," I persist, before switching my voice to a gentle tease. "But I know someone who might. Someone who gets along well with everyone she meets and who still owes her big sister a birthday present." _

"_Nuh-uh. You have to deal with some people on your own, Wiress." She rolls her eyes at my still-pleading face. "Besides, how would you pay her back? District Three will have a ten-year winning streak before she'll give you a speck of dust for free."_

_As it turns out, Talee carries the message that I'll pay Ilyia extra shifts' wages for two months in return for a bundle of tungsten wires. I never see her reaction, but if my sister's account is anything to go by, she is nothing short of delighted at what must seem an absurdly one-sided deal. It doesn't matter to me. Once the wires are hooked up to our block's generator, I have a precious light source all my own. Every evening I huddle near the bravely shining bulb, reveling over what I've created without the Capitol's knowledge and in defiance of their disapproval. Concealed in this dark house is my personal act of revolution. _

_Inevitably, it is not to last. One week after I set up my masterpiece, Talee bursts into the room and snatches it out of my hands. Just as she's about to smash it against the wall, I come to my senses and yank it away. A vicious tug-of-war ensues. _

"_What are you doing?"_

"_Wiress, this thing's dangerous," she insists. "Rumor in the factory is that someone overheard some peacekeepers talking about a disruption in the power supply. That means you. If they find out who's been tapping into their electricity, they'll be furious."_

"_But-" I can already tell I'm losing, but sentiment demands I fight. _

"_Shut up," Talee snaps, frightened beneath her firmness. "This is serious. Ilyia already came to tell me that if they find you, you didn't get the wires from her. Dad's too paranoid to so much as bring it up to you, but he's worried, too. Do you honestly think I'm going to let you get arrested – or worse – over a stupid invention?" _

_Just like that, my little feat is over. Seeing how upset I am, Talee allows me to dispose of the contraption myself, which I do discreetly and on the outskirts of town. Memories of the broken glass fresh in my mind, I return to the monotonous routine of daily life. Within two weeks, the extra shifts at the factory and black nights by the stove have stamped out the last few sparks of rebellion from my heart. _

I'm not sure when the dream-memory ends and reality begins, because I'm crying in both of them. I wake to a dampened pillow, and from then until Gallus arrives, my thoughts are consumed by the things I have had to destroy for the sake of the Capitol, and those which I may have to yet.

~~0~~

I had hoped today's meeting with the prep team would take less time than the previous one, seeing as they'd already removed a lifetime's worth of soot from my body. Instead, I am left baffled at how many things they still find it necessary to correct. My skin is further blanched with a coating of makeup, while my usually dull hair acquires an obsidian sheen I never knew it could possess. I recognize the reappearance of the girl from the chariot rides long before Fabriola arrives with the finishing touch.

"Your mentor's been filling me in on your angle," she informs as I step into the strapless, floor-length gown, "and I believe that this outfit strikes the balance you are looking for. The serenity, the aloofness, of the opening ceremony costume is there – in the long lines, the elegance of the skirt, the lack of vibrant colors – yet the pattern shatters the illusion that you are completely reserved. It adds the dash of character the Capitol has been waiting for – the character which, I trust, you are preparing to tantalize them with tonight." She clucks disapprovingly as I attempt to tug the neckline higher than its low resting place. "Don't bother with it, girl. Look in the mirror already."

I see immediately what she is going for. The dress, which cascades from my chest to the floor, is pure white, yet adorned with a bewitching arrangement of black swirls, beads and sequins. It's certainly not as flamboyant as many of the outfits I've seen on past interviews, but memorable in its own right. Just like me. Or, at least, the me I'll hopefully be able to present to the Capitol.

"Well, don't stand there gawking. What do you think?"

Fabriola's impatient tone diminishes the small swell of happiness the gown had given me. It's her brusque words that remind me what all this really means. To me, and possibly Beetee, the dress and its symbolism are a ray of light in this last, desperate bid for sponsors. To her, they're merely another paycheck, another creation to display on some hapless tribute before both are discarded and forgotten.

"It's nice," I respond briskly.

My stylist lifts her ridiculously expressive eyebrows, but gives no other response before turning to shoo the prep team from the room. The ensuing silence makes way for the sounds echoing from the City Circle. Screams, whoops, chanting. They're a pack of wolves, howling for our blood. _They're so close ... _it's _so close._

The terror I've been trying to repress for days builds like a tidal wave. The noises of the crowd, Fabriola's cool unconcern over my fate, the sudden nearness of the arena; all combine in a sickening rush of dread. Before I'm even aware what's happening, my fingers are buried deep in my hair and I've started to hyperventilate frantically.

"You're hardly the first tribute to panic before the interviews," comes Fabriola's voice above my panicked breathing, "and you won't be the last."

"Is – that supposed to – comfort me?"

"That depends on your definition of 'comfort,'" she responds, as infuriatingly austere as always. "If it was supposed to reassure you that everything is perfectly fine, that nothing bad will ever happen to you and that you'll be back home by tomorrow, then absolutely not. As I'm sure you already know, I'm not one to stand for false consolation. My intention is to prepare you as best I can for the Games, through whatever means necessary. In this case, that means providing you with enough confidence to go up on that stage and face the Capitol with your head held high, 'comforted' or not."

"Of course," I mutter, at once incredibly frustrated with myself for expecting any real compassion from my stylist. "You're perfectly happy to help me when it reflects well on you; when it comes to how I'm actually feeling, I'm on my own."

"Have I ever given you any reason to think that?"

"You don't have to," I retort, determined not to be softened by the similarity of her words to Beetee's. "You work for the Games. Isn't that enough?"

Fabriola sighs. "You ask far too many questions that have no straight answers. All I can say is that the world is not as black and white as you think it is, Wiress."

"How so?"

I'm not sure whether or not I imagine the ripple of sadness that crosses her face. "That isn't for you or I to say, girl. Not here."

"Five minutes 'til broadcast!" screams a voice from outside. Snapping flawlessly back into business, Fabriola straightens my dress and hurries me over to the door. I have less than a minute to regain my composure before the rest of the District 3 team materializes on the scene and we begin our progress towards the elevator.

Down on the ground floor, the twenty-two other tributes are being shepherded into a fidgety line. Between the flustered stylists making last-minute touch-ups and the number of teenagers nearly in tears, everyone seems to be in some state of agitation. It's only the career pack, whom Arkel and I are placed in the center of, the pair from Ten, and a handful of dead-eyed mentors who appear completely together.

"Hair, Wiress," tuts Fabriola, reaching over to slide a comb through my slightly dishevelled locks. "I can't speak for all my fellow stylists, but _I _won't stand for a tribute being sent out as a mess."

She shoots a pointed glance at one of the District Eight crew, reminding me of poor Dimity's hysterics on the opening night and how it took Orford's interference to return her makeup to its original state. The look of disgust Fabriola had worn jumps to my mind. Momentarily, it dawns on me that the girl from Eight may not have been the target of her scorn.

Then the glare of the spotlight floods my vision, and I don't have time to think. I just move.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi! First of all, I'd like to thank everyone for their reviews. It always makes me smile to see that someone took the time to say what they think, or to favorite this or add it to story alerts. Thanks to some reviews in particular, I was inspired to get this chapter up sooner than usual! (Unfortunately, math finals got in the way :P) **

**Secondly, I need to give a big shout-out to NutsandVolts for making my story's cover. Thanks a bunch! **

**Thirdly, I'd like to recommend two stories: NutsandVolts' **_**Breathe**_**, which is a different version of Wiress' story, and NumberOneFanofJourney's **_**Dead or Alive**_**, which I'm co-writing and which is the 61****st**** Hunger Games through the eyes of its tributes. **

**Anyway, here's the last chapter before the arena. Hope you enjoy!**

~~0~~

The first thing that strikes me about the crowd in the City Circle is just how _big _it is. I suppose that's rather obvious, but it's all I can think of. For the first time in I don't know how long, my mind's not racing ahead of me – it's frozen on the thousands of faces, both old and disturbingly young, who have turned up to cheer on the Capitol's latest batch of victims.

I must have been slowing the line down, because the next thing I know, Arkel's bumping into my back. His apologetic sputters hurry me along to my seat. Maybe it's the uncomfortable blaze of the spotlight, the tenseness of the moment, or the continued numbness of my mind, but for whatever reason, my next words come spilling out. "Good luck."

He eyes me somewhat warily as he slides into his chair. Is it because, this close to the Games, any gesture of sympathy between soon-to-be competitors is a lost cause? Somehow, I can't see him thinking that way. He knows by now – or, I hope he knows – that I have no intentions of hurting him, and that just because we're not allies it doesn't mean we can't wish each other the best.

I'm proven right. Arkel echoes my words nervously, and it's that thought that I hold onto when the roar of the crowd escalates and Caesar Flickerman prances on stage.

I can't bring myself to listen to what the Capitol seems to think is his well-placed humor, so I focus on his appearance instead. In the seventeen years I've watched the Games, I've seen every color imaginable enhance his outfit – tangerine, pale lemon, last year's forest green. This time is a little different. His hair, lipstick and eye shadow are gold, but not solidly so – rather, the color seems to ripple in place, varying from deep tan to vibrant yellow. I muse over whether or not this has any deeper significance until the interviews begin and I force myself to focus.

The young woman from One, whose name turns out to be Quartz, possesses the beauty I've come to expect from her district. Surprisingly, however, she doesn't focus on it. Instead, her angle is cold and cunning, with a razor edge of wit. "People seem to think I'm just a pretty face," she muses. "That's fine with me. It'll be nice for them if the last face they see is good-looking."

Her district partner exudes a casual arrogance which the audience seems to adore, whooping at his banter and – on one occasion – swooning as he flexes an arm. He seems to go for likeable rather than bloodthirsty; but I'm intimidated nonetheless. It's a fear that increases with the next interview.

"So, Euthalia," Caesar burbles, his excitement a stark contrast to her stony, impassive features, "how do you rate your chances tomorrow? Do you think it'll be a District 2 victory this year?"

"Yes," comes her blunt response.

"My, someone's confident!" Caesar reacts with exaggerated shock. "Want to share why?"

Two wastes no time with her response, words as direct and efficient as her sword strikes. "Because I am the only person in this arena who sees the Games for what they truly are. Not a show, not a celebration, but a challenge – the supreme test of strength and skill. I haven't awaited this moment my whole life" – despite my disdain for her, I can't help noticing her intelligence in avoiding the fact that she's been illegally trained – "just to treat it as an excuse to show off. I will attain my Victory with honor and purpose, or not at all."

Caesar lets out a low whistle. "Sounds impressive. Going to shed any light on what that 'honor and purpose' entails?"

"The audience – and my competitors – will see come Game time. If they do not understand it, they do not understand me, nor do they deserve to."

Two's unshakeable contempt for everyone and everything present carries her easily through the rest of the interview. When Caesar presses her on the subject of family or friends, she merely narrows her eyes and responds that she owes her loyalties to the District, not to any individual. His final question – her opinion of her fellow tributes – elicits a similarly lofty response.

"What do I think of them?" she echoes, not looking back at us save for a swift glance at her district partner. "Nothing. They are the competition; nothing more, nothing less. Unlike some others, I have more respect for the true purpose of the Games than to pester them with threats and intimidation. I am a warrior, not a hired thug."

The buzzer rings as if in emphasis, and the ensuing silence is as icy as her stare.

Once the wild cheering dies down, her district partner strides forward. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he is trying to duplicate Euthalia's interview, but with wildly different results. The young man named Haldor, although sharing her physique, comes off as a mere ghost of her personality. Although I feel as frightened by his talk of triumph and glory as I was by hers, the audience's applause is less exuberant.

My name is called then, but I don't budge from my seat. _Just like we rehearsed,_ I think, letting my gaze wander distractedly over my feet, the other tributes, the buildings; anything but Caesar. In addition to its intended purpose – playing up my supposed peculiarity – it serves as a moment to soothe my nerves. I wonder if Beetee knew how much of a comfort I would find it.

"Wiress Bentell?" _That's my cue. _With a start of fake surprise, I rise and drift over to the chair. I feel a brief twinge of gratitude for Fabriola and my trailing dress; without it, the audience would certainly be able to see my legs trembling.

"And there she is!" Caesar whoops as I seat myself, crossing my legs in a peculiar fashion that must be making Gallus' skin crawl. "Taking your time, huh, Wiress? Not too worried about tomorrow?"

"Oh, I don't know," I lie, staring pensively up into space. "I was just ... so deep in thought, I didn't hear you the first time."

"Planning out your strategy, eh?" Caesar suggests with a wink. "Something tells me we can expect to see a lot of that in the arena."

"You'd be correct." Beetee's instructions reverberating in my mind, I offer the audience a mysterious smile before allowing my eyes to glaze over once more.

"Ha! I love this!" the golden-haired host cries, slapping me exuberantly on the shoulder – I make an effort not to flinch. "Your mind's working a mile a minute, I can tell! Those little cogs are going round and round. If you ask me, someone's so smart it's a little bit, well, nuts!" He makes a motion imitating this, which earns a slight laugh from the audience.

_Beetee was right_, I think with a warm surge of relief. _Caesar does know how to make this easy. _That's one more Capitolian whose aid I can be thankful for.

"Now, you've been a bit of an enigma this week," he continues, returning his attention to me. "Why don't you let us know a bit about the real Wiress? What is it like for you back home? Top of the class, I presume?"

"Well, that depends. Are you rounding the grades to the hundredths or the thousandths?" Of course it makes no difference – not to mention the fact that I'm not at the top anyway – but I doubt the majority of the audience will know or care. Caesar milks the line for more than it's worth, and I latch on to his assistance. We go back and forth like this for a while, me providing intelligent dialogue which he spins into jokes or, better yet, leaves untranslated and impressive. To make sure the eccentricity aspect isn't overshadowed, I twist some hair around my finger or trace the patterns on my dress every once in a while. I'm in my element here, and it's only too soon that he changes the subject.

"So, District Three. How does it compare to the Capitol?"

_It's sooty, cramped and depressing, and I'd trade it for this place in a heartbeat. _"It's a world of difference, really. The Capitol is far more aesthetically pleasing – just look at the angles in the archways; the design of these skyscrapers. Zig-zagging off into the sky!" I make a sudden, erratic movement indicating this. "I'd love to have a chat with the architect. And the technology is breathtaking. One could power an entire block of our factories from the circuitry on our floor alone! What I wouldn't give to spend longer here, and learn as much as I can from your great city..."

"I'm sure we all hope you will," interjects Caesar. "Now, one final question before you leave. Is there anything you'd like to say to the viewers back home? Friends, family?"

The stage swirls unexpectedly in front of me. Beetee's warnings about composure are like arrows through my mind as I realize I'm tearing up. _T-that's okay, Wiress ... just keep it together. Be calm, but honest. You don't want to die leaving anything unsaid._

I stare directly into the crowd for the first time. There's a cameraman on the second balcony, and it's all too easy to imagine Talee watching his footage this very moment. Her expression is undoubtedly serious, far more so than any child deserves to look. If I can ease that for one second...

"I hope that they know how much I love them. And that I'll t-" I bite my tongue before I can say 'try my best.' It's the truth, but can I disappoint Beetee by appearing too insecure in this pivotal moment? "-That, whatever happens, it'll be how I want it. Remember that."

The buzzer sounds, and I return to the refuge of my seat, hardly daring to believe that it's all over. However well I did, there's nothing more I can do now. Somehow that's a relief.

It fades quickly as the rest of the interviews drag on. Arkel's is painful to watch. He tries to appear deadly and sly, but fails spectacularly. As I watch the boy I've come to regard as a friend imply he'd be more than willing to stab an unsuspecting tribute in the back, I'm equally disturbed and bewildered. I still know little about Arkel, but I can't imagine him doing such a thing, and I'm certain the audience can't, either. Maybe it's arrogant of me to pity him when I don't know how well I did myself, but I do.

Tethys from Four takes the stage next, and from the first instant it's clear that this will be even harder to stomach than Arkel's awkwardness. Without even waiting for Caesar to begin, she asks him to name the first object that comes to mind, then proceeds to describe in excruciating detail how violently she could kill a fellow tribute with it. The mental images of being stabbed, clubbed, strangled and dissected alive would be horrific enough if they weren't likely to happen in less than twenty-four hours. Unlike Euthalia, Four takes the time to stare each and every one of us – with particular emphasis on little Jash – in the face. While the Twelve keeps his eyes locked on hers, I have to divert my own when my turn comes. The only positive thing I can glean from her rant is that, if I am to be killed by her, I won't have to worry about when say my last goodbyes. She promises to give us plenty of time.

After the boy from Four has finished with his dark humor, the interviews become slightly more bearable. With each that passes, I attempt to remember the names and at least one trait of each of my fellow tributes. It's the least I can do when my survival would come at the cost of all their lives.

The first of them to go up is Ciara, who excels in the part of a friendly, optimistic girl. From what I've seen in training, it doesn't require much acting on her part. Her district partner, a stocky young man named Brant, goes for the strong-and-silent angle. Agni from Six is difficult to hear in more than one way, her voice hushed with terror. Daken speaks longingly of the brothers who clung to him during his Reaping, sharing stories of their escapades as younger boys. The audience's response is lukewarm, confirming my belief in the Capitolians' hypocrisy. Every year they flock out in droves to hear their tributes speak, but give them anything that isn't a mask – anything from the heart rather than a desire to survive – and they couldn't care less.

Imana and Spruce from District Seven both perform well as capable underdogs, which, coupled with their training scores, makes them seem the most likely non-Career Victors thus far. My resolve not to tune out the interviews begins to crack with Dimity's. I'm not sure whether it's natural or a deliberate ploy for sympathy, but she embraces her vulnerability for all it's worth. It's always been obvious that she is among the youngest tributes, but here she seems ten years old, answering the questions shyly and blushing when Caesar compliments her dress.

"I – I never imagined that anyone could make something look this nice," she says, fanning out her beribboned skirt for the audience. There's a crackle over the microphone, and I feel a rush of anger at the circumstances that require her to act brave when she seems so close to tears. "I hope everyone at home likes it. M-my sister would. Isn't it pretty, Cali?"

"I'm sure she's thinking that right now," reassures Flickerman gently.

The boy from Eight, Rayen, is thin but tall and shows determination. Fidda talks of how lucky she is to have met such good friends in the Capitol, casting a quick smile in Ciara's direction.

_Where will that get you in the arena, _I think helplessly. _How can your friendship last if you're forced to kill each other? Will the Capitol destroy that as well? _

_Why should it matter, _a darker voice reasons, _as long as they both die? _

I shake my head frantically, alarmed by the very presence of the thought, before realizing a camera might be picking up this display of questionable sanity. This is dismissed just as quickly. _Oh, let them see. That's part of my angle, isn't it? I'm nuts. _

I'm being worn down by the sheer number of interviewees. With each one that goes by, it's increasingly difficult to accept that I need them all dead if I am to get home. Back when I used to watch the Games, I found myself wishing luck to every tribute, at least those who weren't Careers and didn't imitate any of their bloodlust. I never thought anything of this – it seemed a human emotion, instinctive and right. Turning it off is something I cannot afford to do – but keeping it on is proving just as draining.

A burst of applause yanks me from my thoughts. The sturdily-built girl from Ten is returning to her seat. With a twinge of guilt and relief, I realize I've missed her interview and the boy from Nine's. However, the identity of the young man now rising from his seat commands my attention. Orford.

One hand sweeping his thick bangs away from his brow, he strides over to Caesar and takes his seat. His pure white suit contrasts brilliantly with his tanned skin, formal but open at the sleeves to reveal musculature. Draping his arms nonchalantly around the back of the chair, he appears the picture of ease and confidence.

"So, Orford," says Caesar, "the final day before the Games. Just one night between you and the arena. What's going through your mind? How do you rate your chances?"

The Ten pauses for a moment, then begins in his slow, honest voice. "Pretty good, I reckon. Of course, nothing's certain for anybody, but I'd say I'm pleased with my odds. Whatever happens'll happen, and I'll cope with it as it comes."

"Such modesty!" Flickerman trills. "But don't be so humble. What about that training score, eh?"

Orford shrugs. "I'm certainly grateful for it."

"Oh, come now! Give us a hint!"

The teenager shakes his head with a slight grin. "Wait for the arena, and you'll see."

"Well, if you say so."

After a brief moment of fake pouting, the interviewer shifts to other topics. He inquires on Orford's time in the Capitol, to which the Ten replies that it's been "quite an experience" but he wants more than anything to see his home again. When the subject of the other tributes comes up he shows neither sympathy nor contempt; merely says he hopes they're prepared to fight their hardest, as he certainly will. I'm spellbound by the difference between the two men on stage: Flickerman's ceaseless exuberance versus Orford's calm, steady manner. Unlike many of the obvious frontrunners, nothing in his manner comes off as a threat. While I don't doubt that he could snap my neck in a heartbeat, the idea is irreconcilable with the person he shows himself to be.

The final question put to the auburn-haired boy is the same as it was for me. His composure remains flawless upon being asked about his family, although there are a few moments of silence before he can answer. Fixing his eyes firmly upon the same second-story balcony I did, he begins:

"Mom. Dad. Everything I know, you taught me. I swear I won't forget it in the arena. Remember that whatever happens, I'm still your son. I love you more than anything, and I hope I'll make you proud." A deep exhale. "Brome, Ovis, Fesca, Angus. Alfa. I think about you all the time. Just because I'm far away now doesn't mean I'll stay that way forever. Keep your chins up. Don't let this break you." Another pause, then, "More than anything, I want you all to know that what I said still stands. I will come back to you. _No matter what._"

Not even Caesar Flickerman feels the need to diminish the moment with commentary. Somehow I know rather than assume that when he spoke those words, everything vanished. The Capitol, the audience, the tributes: none of us were meant to hear that. It was all for his family.

"Ladies and gentlemen," comes the announcer's voice after a while, "that was Orford Geddis, male tribute of District Ten."

The applause that follows is thunderous. Perhaps I would have the sense to see this as a threat were I not still so mesmerized by his words.

~~0~~

The following interviews are a blur. Try as I might to remember them, the lateness of the hour and the stress of tomorrow push contestants' names and angles from my mind the second they've returned to their seats. Furthermore – although I cringe for placing one tribute above another – everything seems to pale in comparison to Orford's success. Neither eleven makes much of an impact, though the male has the height to intimidate if he were better fed. Twelve's girl is quiet but not as fearful as some of the others.

I force myself out of my distraction when Jash takes the stage, however. So much has been built up about Haymitch Abernathy's first tribute, through both Capitolian propaganda and what I've witnessed in the training center. Several seconds in and it's obvious that he's trying to emulate the cocky indifference his mentor perfected in last year's Games. Whether or not this works is more difficult to tell. My underlying impression is that, while arrogance was suitable for a relatively strong sixteen-year-old, it can't be believed on this emaciated child. His revelation that he is thirteen rather than, as commonly believed, twelve, does little to change my opinion. Yet there's something about his confidence in spite of the tremendous odds that makes him alluring. Or maybe it's just my own reluctance to see one more person's death as completely inevitable.

Once the final buzzer has sounded, we're all required to stand for the Capitolian anthem. Its slow tune, weighty with grim purpose, returns my mind to the Reaping Day. Can it really be such a short time since I stood on a stage in my own District while the same song solidified my fate?

_It's all over now, _I think helplessly. _I won't get another chance to appeal to the sponsors. What happened has to be good enough, because there's nothing else I can do. _

Nothing but listen to the awful finality of each note, dropped into the night like a stone into a pond.

~~0~~

The number of tributes, mentors and stylists returning to their quarters transforms the Training Center's lobby into a multicolored swarm. The noise and vibrancy are jarring. My head begins to pound as I weave through the crowd with Arkel in tow, lured by the refuge of sleep. With tomorrow looming ahead like a cliff of black rock, nothing seems more tempting than to surrender everything to oblivion. That is, if insomnia and nightmares have enough respect to stay away for one night.

"Wiress! Arkel!" The sound of Beetee's voice draws us towards the lifts, where our mentor and, surprisingly, Maybell, are waiting. I haven't seen the surly, potbellied woman since the broadcast of the training scores, but nothing about her dark expression has changed, save for the fact that it might be more noticeably twisted by alcohol. I'm too tired to care whether today's drunkenness is feigned, and it seems an act of mercy when our prep teams and stylists finally arrive. We bundle into an elevator and begin the ascent.

"Did I do well?" Arkel asks immediately. Hoping he doesn't call on me to answer, I avert my eyes from his pleading look.

"Of course, sonny!" burbles his stylist, while Fabriola tuts and Maybell offers her usual scowl.

Beetee's response is more evasive. "Neither of you did the best; neither of you did the worst."

The other Victor laughs humorlessly. "No, that honor goes to the Twelve. Poor little devil. Can't say 'e deserves it, but Abernathy'll learn the hard way what 'appens when you build your first tribute all the way up to the sky. By God, we all learn-"

"He didn't do that badly," I counter, too tired to put up a better argument.

"He was terrified," Beetee says simply. "You could see it in his eyes. And, after being built up so much, there are few things that could hurt him more." The look he gives Maybell apparently ends the conversation, for she retreats, scowling, into one of the corners.

"More importantly," our mentor presses on, turning his attention to Arkel and I, "What did you two learn from the interviews? Who do you see as your greatest threats among the non-Careers? Did anyone else stand out to you as an opponent?"

"Um ..." Sluggishly I cycle through the rest of the tributes, trying to recall who struck me as more likely to win. "The Sevens seemed pretty capable. Spruce and Imana, I mean. And, I guess ... the boy from nine. I can't remember his name."

"The guy from Five was sort of tough," offers Arkel. "And the girl from Ten."

Beetee lifts his eyebrows shrewdly. "What about her District Partner?"

"No," I interrupt. While the more practical side of my mind hisses to beware his strong build and high training score, I can't bring myself to see him as an enemy. True, he's determined to get back to his family, but that doesn't mean he'll attack without provocation. And surely he wouldn't be foolish enough to help tributes with combat if he was planning to kill them? "He's not like that. I can tell. He has ... honor."

"So does the girl from Two," Fabriola chimes in, "and I know you won't be willingly crossing her path."

_Honor? Her? _I feel my skin crawl. _If she had any such thing, she wouldn't have volunteered in the first place. _

"Anyway," interjects Beetee, probably trying to stop another ethical debate before it begins, "the point is, I don't want either of you underestimating the other tributes just because they aren't Careers. I'd say to keep an eye out for the ones with the highest training scores – as Wiress said, the boys from Five and Nine, the Sevens, and both of the Tens. Eight's boy and Twelve's girl haven't given up yet, either. Now, as for the Careers, which of them do you think is the weakest link?"

"None of them," I answer dully. What's the point of this? Whatever he might say doesn't change the gory details of what the trained tributes can do to me. I've heard enough about that, courtesy of District Four.

"Come on. Don't play ignorant with me, not now. Whose interviews seemed underwhelming, compared to the others?"

"The boy from Two, I guess," I offer. Whatever he did to win the crowd has nearly disappeared into the threatening haze of Career interviews. I suppose that means it was among the least remarkable. "I think he was just repeating what his District Partner said."

"Exactly." Beetee seems somewhat relieved that I've picked up on this. "Whenever a tribute has to rely on another's strengths to make themselves appear impressive, it's a sure sign that they aren't confident in their own. I'd also add the girl from One to that list. She obviously wants to be taken seriously – hence her emphasis on cunning rather than beauty – but keep in mind that her training score was one of the lowest of the pack."

"I will," Arkel and I echo in near unison.

Our lift glides to a halt and we emerge onto the landing. With rushed goodbyes, the stylists and prep teams explain that they must leave to give our district tokens to the review board. Reluctant as I am to part with mine, I slip it from where it was tied around my ankle and hand it over. The only alternative is to leave it behind, and that is not an option for me.

After they've left, I go ahead and whisk open the door to the District Three quarters. I'd expected the room to be mercifully silent and empty, but this is not the case. What I see instead gives me a start. The floor-to-ceiling television is illuminated by a rerun of the training score reveals, while an announcer's voice proclaims our odds of survival. Gallus, watching from the couch, shifts slightly to give us a peevish look before becoming engrossed once more in the program.

"What are you doing here?" My voice sounds strangely small, as if the room has just doubled in size. _Why didn't I notice he wasn't in the elevator with us? Did he even come to the interviews at all?_

"I was trying to figure out who I would sponsor if I could," the escort replies irritably, "_before _I was interrupted."

It's as if I've been struck by a lash. His words sting with a malice I didn't think him capable of. I know he's petty; I know he's vain; but to hear that he actually cares so little that he would abandon us for another tribute is nearly unthinkable.

"There you are, Gallus," says Maybell obliviously, struggling past Arkel and I to get into the room. "I wondered where in blazes you'd gone. Any other mentor would have your head for this."

Beetee edges in after her, frowning slightly. "I agree. It was very irresponsible of you to leave."

Gallus switches off the TV and turns to face us, eyes narrowed with deliberate venom. Can this really be the same clueless man who escorted us here? "I stayed until District Four was finished. It was hard enough to stomach the drivel our own two had to say; you can't expect me to sit through every other sob story when I'm not even allowed to be a sponsor."

"How tragic," replies Beetee acridly. "I don't know how you manage."

"Very poorly, no thanks to you," Gallus sneers. "What do you think my reputation is like when my district's tributes can never even make it past the-"

"That's enough," Beetee snaps more urgently. "Show some sympathy in front of the tributes."

Maybell's rage from the elevator returns without warning – _no, _I realize, _not returns. Resurfaces. _A fury the likes of which I haven't seen since the first night trembles slowly over her skin, igniting a distressingly familiar spark of fear in my heart. All my dread of the Careers seems to extinguish before my very present, very real terror of the woman in front of me.

"The tributes?" she screams. "Snow's bloody corpse, is it always about the _tributes? _You want to talk about pity; don't waste it on the dead. Year after year, Game after Game, tribute after poor damned tribute, and how many more Victors do we have to show for it? Bleeding zero, that's what! I won't have it, I won't have it, I _won't_-"

"Maybell, for pity's sake-" Beetee places a hand over her mouth and attempts to guide her over to the sofa. "Please, just sit down, take a deep breath..."

"Don't you tell me what to do, Beetee Joule," she snaps hatefully, twisting out of his grip with unexpected strength. "You haven't been doing this for half as long as I have. You don't know what it's like, wishing for someone with a speck of backbone, ending up with a couple of spineless imbeciles who won't take responsibility for their own lives. Bloody interviews, bloody training scores ... where will it all get them? Dead tomorrow, or in a week if they're lucky! I tell you, it'll be their own damn faults, not mine." She flings her hand back at Arkel and I, eyes blazing with contempt. "I'm not going to be held responsible for this."

"She's right, children," scolds Gallus, advancing with a finger wag. "You can't expect anyone to take your side in this situation. Perhaps if you'd worked harder in training, you'd merit a tad more sympathy."

Everything about this – Gallus' snide condescension, Maybell's unbridled loathing, the yelling assaulting my ears – is so sudden and unwelcome that I'm torn between laughing and crying. Without even realizing it, I give in to the latter.

Maybell's and Gallus' knowing looks wound my already shrivelling confidence. Painfully aware of how loud my sobs sound, I bury my reddening face in my hands. _Just end already, _I plead desperately. _Just let this be over. I'm not strong enough to do this anymore. _

"More proof as to what I mean," comes Maybell's low voice. "Why should anyone help tributes who aren't even strong enough to help themselves? That's how it'll end in the arena, you mark my words. That's what always happens. Snivelling, sobbing, poor me, just another pathetic-"

"Leave her alone."

Arkel looks just as surprised as the rest of us. I'm still trying to figure out if the words did indeed come from his mouth when he speaks again, albeit much quieter.

"Just ... leave us be. Both of us." Hugging his knees protectively, he shrinks back into his sofa cushion. "We're not stupid. We know we might die tomorrow. Do you think we like being reminded?"

No one answers. I don't think any of us can. Between me struggling to clear the sticky residue from my eyes, Arkel disappearing behind a scarlet flush, and the other three staring in shock, the moment belongs to silence.

It's broken by Maybell, who gives a ferocious sniff and departs with a beady-eyed glare. Sensing that he, too, has somehow been bested by a tribute boy, Gallus follows suit. In a repeat of so many other times this past week, it is Beetee, Arkel and I who are left behind in the tense stillness.

"T-thank you," I offer eventually. Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I sit gingerly down beside my district partner. He's staring listlessly at the opposite wall, looking as if he's never regretted anything so much as his outburst.

"I mean it," I say, as forcefully as I can with my voice still wobbly from crying. "It was - I really appreciate that." I'm on the verge of telling him how surprised – and impressed – I was by his courage, but out loud the words might seem condescending.

"Thanks. Uh, I mean, you're welcome." He plays with his fingers for several moments, then looks up with what might be faint hope. "I don't suppose you want to change your mind about an alliance...?"

"No." Many things may have changed since I made that promise – my opinion of Beetee, my awareness of Gallus' spite, even how I view Fabriola – but my respect for my District Partner isn't one of them. In fact, given recent events, it's increased. All the more reason why I cannot put myself in a position to kill him. "I'm very sorry, but you know why I can't do that."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it. Honor, and all that." He smiles slightly at my expression. "I'm not insulting it, you know. I told you before; I really do admire it. It's just that... well, never mind."

"I'm sorry," I repeat again, sensing he's not going to finish. Then, to make things a bit better: "Just remember, I'm not going to hurt you in the arena. If we run across each other, I'll ... well, I can't guarantee I'll have much of anything in the way of supplies, but I'll help you out as much as I can." The thought of Talee's face makes me feel I shouldn't say the next two words, but the sight of Arkel's does. "I promise."

_Yet another one, _taunts a voice in the back of my mind. _How many are you going to keep? _

~~0~~

We sit there for a while, the tension of the moment softened by our mutual suffering. Worries over what to say, given the closeness of the arena, swim idly in the back of my mind. Some blend of exhaustion, fear of tomorrow, and the thought that any reassurance I might offer would be empty pushes them back. I would gladly go to bed, but the thought of waiting for morning alone, or leaving Arkel to do the same, keeps me rooted to the couch.

I'm not sure what time the interviews ended, but I'm dimly aware of the clock striking midnight, then one. Within half an hour of this, Arkel slinks off to his bedroom without another word. Watching his figure retreat along the shadowed hallway makes me wonder if this is the last time I'll ever see him. There's no guarantee we'll run into each other in the morning, or that our starting plates will be near each other's. If we both die at the bloodbath...

A soft coughing distracts me. With a sudden realization of exactly how nervous I am, I whip around, only to see Beetee leaning against the wall. Was he here all along? I can't recall him leaving.

"I didn't know you were there," I say.

"Been here all along," he mutters quietly, not bothering to remove his gaze from a blank spot on the wall. "Didn't want to leave you alone before..."

"Thanks."

Beetee doesn't respond, but stalks over to one of the windows. Throwing aside the curtains, he reveals a plethora of flashing lights and illuminated skyscrapers. It's so unsuitable for the moment as to be harsh; a far cry from the inky blackness of home. Yet another thing I never thought I'd miss.

"Her name was Cherise," my mentor murmurs unexpectedly.

"Whose?"

"My district partner's," he clarifies, still facing the Capitolian night.

"How did you know-"

"You were thinking about Arkel? Part intuition, part lucky guess, and part being in the same situation." The trace of humor in his voice fades, leaving something raw and deeply real. "He's very lucky to have you, you know."

"Why? You heard it yourself; we're not in an alliance." _Not to mention it'll be hard enough keeping myself alive, let alone him if we cross paths. _

"Because you care," he explains simply.

"What do you-"

"Her name was Cherise," he begins again. "I think she was my age. I wasn't anywhere near as close to her as you are to him. That didn't mean I wanted her to die."

"What happened?"

"We were across from each other at the Cornucopia. I ran at the gong. Somewhere behind me, I heard a girl scream." He stares resolutely out the window, as if the lights of the Capitol will purge his memory. "I didn't look back."

The silence is fragile now, like glass. I'm afraid that if I so much as breathe, it will shatter.

"I'll never know whether it was her or not. The next time I saw her, she was a face in the sky."

"I-I'm sorry."

"I don't know why I'm telling you this, Wiress," Beetee admits, finally tearing his gaze away from those hypnotic lights. The face that greets me is hauntingly familiar. It's not that of a murderer, nor that of the aloof and infuriatingly complex man I thought I knew. Instead, it's that of my father. A man far too young to bear such obvious scars of sadness.

"I shouldn't be bothering you in this manner," he continues guiltily, "especially not right before the arena. I just ... I knew that if one person would want to listen, it would be you."

"I do want to listen," I whisper. At long last, I have a name for one of the tributes who lost their lives before I began to record them. _Cherise. _I form her face in my mind, unsure of whether or not I'm anywhere near accurate. Pale skin, like most of her districtmates. Hair that brushes her shoulders. Glasses like Beetee's. "Thank you for telling me about her."

"Thank you for letting me." He smiles sadly, coming over and lowering himself into an armchair. "You know, that's what first stood out to me about you. Your knowledge of the past tributes. I've never been able to talk to someone about them before. Never even thought about it, if I'm honest. They just..."

"... Just stayed inside, bottled up."

"Exactly."

It occurs to me then that, even if I die tomorrow, it will not have been without one small victory. Here, at last, I have come to understand a small part of the enigma that is Beetee Joule. I once wondered if he viewed his past tributes as anything more than pieces in the Games. Now I have my answer. He knew them; their stories, their fears, their dreams. Perhaps too well. Perhaps that's why he's put up this wall around himself. He may still be full of confusions and contradictions, but, if nothing else, I have someone I can trust looking out for me in the arena. Someone I might call a friend.

It's a few moments before I realize the scene has begun to glaze over again. For the second time today, I lapse into broken sobs. This time, however, a hand begins to caress my shoulder. Awkwardly at first, then gently. It may not be much, but I can think of little else I'd appreciate more.

"I don't want to do this, Beetee," I find myself saying. "I'm so afraid. I won't be able to make myself step on that hovercraft tomorrow morning. I just can't..."

"I know," he mutters simply. The hand leaves my right shoulder, to be replaced with an arm around them both. "I know."

"D-do you think I can win?"

"In your way or my way?"

"Your way."

Beetee sighs and fiddles thoughtfully with his glasses. I already know the answer, but at the moment I need anything, however small and desperate, to hold on to.

"I'm not sure, Wiress," he admits finally. "I won't allow myself to give you false hope, but I can't discourage you, either. If it helps, nobody thought I would win."

"I guessed you'd say that."

He smiles faintly. "We're more alike than you think, or that either of us would care to admit."

More accepting of this thought than I ever dreamed I'd be, I continue to cry myself out until frantic sobs become pathetic little coughs. My throat is hoarse, strands of hair are plastered to my wet cheeks, and I'm so utterly exhausted that even remaining afraid is a challenge. I don't resist as Beetee leads me to the kitchen and wipes away the tears and makeup with a napkin.

"That's enough for tonight. You need sleep."

"Do you think I'm weak?"

"What?" My voice was so slurred I'm impressed he made it out.

"The crying," I clarify. "Do you think it makes me weak?"

I've never looked down upon it, but so many people here have made their disagreement quite vocal. This may have been the first and last real moment I've spent with Beetee, and I don't want its memory to be tainted by his disgust.

"No," says Beetee after a moment. "I think it makes you human."

"Keep that in mind, Wiress," his voice calls as I trail off to my bedroom. "If there's one thing I want you to do in the arena, it's this: remember that, no matter what you may do, you are still human."

~~0~~

I didn't expect a very peaceful sleep the night before the arena, but the haunting images that weave through my dreams are worse than I imagined. I'm back in District Three, trying to stop a Peacekeeper from chasing Arkel down a never-ending street. Then the pursuer morphs into the careers, never settling for one of them but shifting fluidly between all six. All of a sudden it's me who's running for my life. But when the tributes catch me, it's not my blood they want to spill, but their own. As they taunt me for my inability to deal the killing blow, I snap, attacking with inhuman rage. My skin turns wet and red.

Just before the spear meets the final career's throat, my victim transforms into Talee. I scream at myself to stop, but it makes no difference. Chillingly, she expresses no pain, but turns death-heavy eyes towards me. "You did it, Wiress," she rasps. "Now you can come home."

Someone's hand squeezes my shoulder gently. Is it Beetee? Or President Snow, expressing his approval? I can't tell. All I'm aware of is Talee's blood lapping around my feet and the muted sound of a girl screaming, over and over again, far off in the distance.

~~0~~

**All right, now for all you lovely folks who are going to review (and you are, riiiight? ;) ) I have a question. Who do you think is going to be Wiress' final opponent in the arena? Or do you think she'll be lucky enough to have the final two kill each other off? This won't affect the story, as it's already planned out, but I would love to see your predictions on this – or on any other part of the Games! **


	9. Chapter 9

**And we're on to the arena! I can't believe I've gotten this far – or that I have 87 reviews! Seriously, you guys? You're the greatest, and I never would have gotten this far if it wasn't for your inspiration!**

**Also, Wiress has apparently been cast in Catching Fire! She will be portrayed by Amanda Plummer. I think she looks good for the role. What do you think? **

~~0~~

My sole thought when my eyes open is that they shouldn't have. The day can't begin already. I pull my sheets up over my head, willing myself to return to the haven of sleep, half-believing that will make it all a dream.

With slow dread, I eventually accept there's no point in hiding. It takes more effort than I could have imagined to strip away the covers. When I do, there stands Fabriola. Her face betrays no more emotion than usual, but something uncharacteristically gentle laces her voice.

"Up, Wiress. It's time."

My actions are preformed unconsciously. Slip on the dress Fabriola brought me. Brush hair. Be led down the hall. If I dwell on what might happen for even a second, I know there's no way I'll be able to board that hovercraft.

There's a sharp pang of longing as the doors of the lift block my view of the District Three level. I never thought I'd miss these miserable rooms, but even they seem a refuge compared to what is to come – particularly with the memories of last night. The comfort of silence and stillness. Kind words. Beetee. He must be with Arkel now, offering him what consolation he can. _I might never see either of them again._

The lift slides open, revealing the Training Center roof and a magnificent view of the Capitol. On a whim of morbid curiosity, I'm about to approach the edge and see if anyone has come out to watch us depart when the hovercraft materializes.

All at once, fear takes over. I can't do it. Stepping aboard that thing means my death. No sane person would do so willingly. The ladder descends, but my limbs won't budge. I can't, I can't, I won't ... please, someone, _anyone_...!

But now there's no Beetee, no Talee, not even Orford, to take my hand and lead me aboard. There's only Fabriola, and I have no doubt as to what is going through her mind. _No one is going to help you off the starting plate in the arena._ From this point on, I am almost entirely on my own.

Stepping onto the ladder, I'm at once literally rather than metaphorically frozen in place. It's an odd sensation, as if some sort of absurdly powerful glue is flowing over my limbs. Even stronger is the feeling of mounting desperation. As the doors close, entrapping me inside this metal prison, it escalates until I can barely refrain from screaming.

A woman approaches with a wicked-looking needle, explaining that it's my tracker and that placing it in "won't hurt a bit." It's a lie, of course, and her soothing voice has the opposite effect on me. As if she has any right to comfort a tribute while making them even more of the Capitol's property.

The engine rumbles; the floor quakes ominously. Just the act of boarding the craft has driven me past my breaking point. All pretenses of strength abandoned, I race to the window and watch as safety draws, irrevocably, farther and farther away.

~~0~~

"Wiress?"

I hear Fabriola approach, but don't budge from the hunched position I've been seated in for the past fifteen minutes. I have my entire face pressed up against the window, oblivious to the steamy fog milling up on the glass. The swift passage of the ground below is mesmerizing, and, more importantly, purges my mind of more distressing thoughts. My stylist's words fall on deaf ears until she's right behind me.

"For pity's sake, Wiress. Have you so much as touched your food? Unless you're confident in your sponsors' ability to buy you a five-course meal, you'd better eat."

I know she's right. However, given the circumstances, I doubt I could keep anything down. Just the sight of the banquet spread out behind me is nauseating.

"I can't," I mumble. "I'll only throw it back up."

Silence for a moment. Then this morning's gentler tone returns. "Are you still interested in hearing what I have to say about black and white?"

_Am I? _Our conversation before the interviews seems so far away, I'm amazed I can still drag it out of my memory. Whatever ethical questions had intrigued me at the time are meaningless now. Yet some part of me frowns at the thought of turning away Fabriola, especially since I have less than an hour left to spend with her. Removing my gaze from the window, I nod.

"I thought so," says Fabriola. "It was too risky to discuss in the Capitol, but there are fewer unfriendly ears here. My only condition is that it be discussed over breakfast. I don't care how much you eat, just as long as you put _something_ in your mouth."

It takes some effort, but I'm eventually able to coax down about half a glass of milk and a piece of toast. Fabriola watches closely the entire time. It's only when I start to retch that she relents and hides the rest of the food beneath a napkin.

"So," I start, once I'm certain I'm not going to vomit, "what was it you wanted to tell me?"

"I distinctly recall that it was _you _who wanted to hear it, not me," Fabriola corrects. "You asked me how I could care for you when I work for the Games. My response is this: is the line between right and wrong so easy to draw?"

"I..." It's so tempting to simply blurt out 'yes' and be done with it. In a world of constant stress and impossible decisions, this rigid wall of morality has seemed both a comfort and a support. But is it? After all that has happened this past week, all the walls I've already been convinced to shatter, it is beginning to feel more like a prison. "I don't know."

"Neither do I," replies Fabriola. "In fact, I believe that to do so would be nearly impossible. Regardless of what I do for a living, the truth remains that I do care about you."

"But you chose to work for the Games," I protest. It's easier to understand Beetee; he never asked for any of this. Fabriola did. "None of this would happen if you didn't have a part in it."

"And if I didn't, then who would?" Fabriola counters calmly. "To use an adage from your district, I never made the machine; I simply help it run. There are hundreds of men and women in the Capitol clamoring to be stylists for the Games. Few of them would give you the time and effort I have. Fewer still would see you as anything more than a living mannequin. Is it so wrong that I should have this position rather than one of them?"

_More than a living mannequin. _This pulls me up short. Caring is one thing, but to hear this implied so honestly by a Capitolian... "You really think I'm human?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because ... because you still don't seem to have a problem with sending me off to the Games." A plaintive quiver has crept into my voice. I meet her gaze directly, demanding an answer that will dispel my conflicting emotions once and for all. "Tell me truthfully: if I'm human, do I really deserve to die?"

Fabriola remains silent for so long that I almost think I have the upper hand, although I'm not entirely sure I want to. Transfixed in thought, my stylist simply stares for what seems an eternity before responding. When she does, it's in the same stable, controlled voice as always.

"Do I think that you, in particular, deserve to die?" she repeats. "No. For all you may think of me, Wiress, I do not share the same opinion of you. You are an intelligent, sensitive young woman who deserves death no more than any other tribute I have styled." A pause, in which she stares at me critically. "However, this does not mean that it is unjust."

"But you just said-"

"Please let me explain. While I do not believe that the majority of the tributes reaped are deserving of it, I do believe it mandatory that _someone_ suffer their fates. The First Rebellion proved that it is impossible to maintain discipline over an entire country without the use of threat. It was the unification of Panem – the authority of a strong government – that allowed humanity to survive war and disaster in the first place. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong, the uprising of the Districts threatened this stability. Nationwide anarchy, chaos in the streets, a death toll in the hundreds of thousands – is this really preferable to twenty-three deaths per year? The Games may be an evil, but they are a necessary one."

"Even if that's true," I counter, "why children? Why make it a show? Why make them kill one another? Couldn't you just-" I have to stop, hating the words coming from my mouth. This suggestion that there is anything remotely justifiable about the Games.

Fabriola sighs. When she replies, it's with a low sadness I'd never expected from her.

"It wasn't only the Districts who lost children during the Dark Days," she says. "I know what you're going to say – that it doesn't make it right – and I agree with you. But revenge can be a powerful motivator, especially when it masquerades as justice. As for the celebratory aspect, there's little I can do to excuse that, either. It wasn't like that at first, of course, but one thing led to another, and ... and it is what it is."

"But if you don't like it, then why don't you stop it? You have power."

Fabriola gives what might be a chuckle. "You're very naive for someone so clever. The influence of a stylist in areas other than the fashion world is quite limited, I'm afraid. Technically speaking, I don't have the right to think such things, let alone say them." She sobers. "Yes, there are certain aspects of the Games of which I do not approve. Betting, muttations, needlessly cruel deaths ... this is the product of sadism, not necessity. But are these things wrong enough to warrant complete disapproval of the system which has kept our country peaceful for over fifty years? Bad things happen to good people, and sometimes, this brings good results. All we can do is accept it."

I don't know what to say. Everything Fabriola has said is an arrow to the heart. To hear the values I hold most dear torn to shreds is nothing short of painful. Where, then, is the disgust I'd expect to feel for such a person? In its place is a grudging, inexplicable respect for this woman who has shared her innermost views with a tribute. More than that, she's supported them with calm logic, completely unlike the fanaticism I've heard in propaganda. I may disagree with her on nearly every point, but through her actions she has at least treated me as an equal. It's more than I can say of any other Capitolian.

"I don't agree," is all I can come up with, "but – thank you. For talking to me. It's helped."

I offer a weak smile, which Fabriola returns.

"Would you like to discuss more? If so, we'll have to hurry," she says, gesturing at the windows. To my horror, they've blacked out. We're almost at the arena.

My mouth feels strangely dry, and my words stumble over each other on the way out. "No – no thank you. But thanks, anyway."

"Thank you as well," responds Fabriola, "for listening."

~~0~~

I try desperately not to think as we descend into the catacombs and several men march me to the Launch Room. Despite this, I can't help noting that the entire place, from the nondescript metal walls to the chilling silence of the guards, speaks of death. I'm almost relieved when a distraction arrives in the form of my arena uniform.

Fabriola lectures me about every article of clothing as I slip them on. The pale beige color hints at warm temperatures to be reflected or sand to blend in with. A tank top suggests heat, while a longer-sleeved cotton shirt may protect from cooler temperatures. My long, light pants are loose for ventilation and can be unzipped to make shorts. Sturdy running shoes tell of large distances. A wide-brimmed hat and dark glasses foreshadow strong sunlight. I begin to piece together the arena, not liking what I see. Somewhere hot, with open space and little cover. Exactly what I don't want.

As a final act, my stylist hands back the strip of fabric that serves as my last reminder of home. I feel I should thank her now – for this, and for everything – but somehow the words won't come. It's as if my silence is the only thing holding back hysterics. I resort to nodding my head, hoping she'll understand the gratitude behind the gesture.

Now there's nothing to do but wait, and waiting is unbearable. Struggling to quell the desire to scream, I try to calm myself with deep breaths. Although they help occupy my thoughts, the feeling that I'm lulling myself into submission, as if already preparing to receive the death blow, merely increases my racing heartbeat. It's nearly bad enough to make me wish for the arena already. At least there, I won't have time to think...

"Wiress. Come here."

Fabriola reaches out for my hand. Before I know what I'm doing, I grab hers and squeeze it in a death grip.

"That's it, girl," comes her voice, a low rumble. "As tightly as you can. Get it all out while there's time. All of it."

It might not be much, but there's closure in the action. She might never be as open as Beetee proved himself to be – I can't imagine sharing a hug with her, for one – but she's given me all that she can.

"Tributes of the Fifty-first Hunger Games," intrudes a sugary voice, "it is time to prepare for launch."

_Oh, Panem. Here it is. _

Somehow I make it to the metal plate in the center of the room, thinking all the while that this must be how doomed criminals feel. I shoot a desperate glance at Fabriola, pleading with her to do anything in her power to save me. It's foolish, of course. There's nothing anybody can do. There never was.

"Stay calm, Wiress," instructs my stylist, all firmness and severity once more. "Let whatever plan you have for the bloodbath be the one thing on your mind. Hold to it. Enact it. Worry about nothing else. There will be plenty of time for that if you're successful."

Unable to form words, I nod.

"Ten seconds 'til launch."

Fabriola opens her mouth, then diverts her gaze swiftly to the ground, as if debating whether or not to speak. An instant later she's made her decision, eyes boring into mine.

"I know what you thought of me, Wiress," she says softly, "and some of it is true. But not all of it. I won't enjoy watching you die."

Those are the last words I hear her say. A glass cylinder descends the next moment, trapping me inside its vacuum of silence. Slowly, inexorably, I begin to rise. _This is it, now. It's happening. _

I keep my gaze locked on Fabriola's until the darkness cuts her off.

After several seconds of isolation and trembling, I'm thrust into blinding white light. The air envelops me with unfamiliar warmth. Fabriola was right. I will have many problems to face in this arena, but being cold is not one of them.

As landmarks fail to emerge from the initial glare of sunlight, I think with dread that we've simply been dropped into nothingness. No – to my relief, the brightness separates into land and sky. There's some sort of golden sheen carpeting the ground. It sharpens into focus, becoming individual stalks of waving grass. Sunlight and shadow dance across their surfaces, painting them alternately dark and light. My mind pounces upon the memory of Caesar Flickerman's hair at the interviews. _So it was a clue after all._

The word for this place dances elusively on my tongue, perhaps a memory from some school textbook. Not plain, not prairie, but something more ... exotic.

My musings end as Claudius Templesmith's voice thunders around the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Fifty-first Hunger Games begin!"

_No time to worry. Plan._ The preliminary sixty seconds are all I have left in which to take in my surroundings. The circle of tributes is located within a ring of shorter grass, strewn with goods from the looming cornucopia. An empty plastic container sits several meters away from me, but I'm not tempted. It may be close, and there may not be any careers in the immediate vicinity – I'm flanked by Agni from Six and Rayen from Eight – but it's simply too much of a risk to take. I'll be viewed as a threat the second I step inside that circle, and with my slight build and lack of combat skills, it's more than likely I'd never come out.

No; my plan from the beginning has been to run. But to where? The field, for lack of a better word, dominates the landscape in almost every direction. On the opposite side of the circle, I can see a sliver of blue amidst the fronds. Beyond that, a sheer cliff towers to the sky. It's far too steep to climb, and there doesn't appear to be any shelter in the grass. No luck there.

More promising is a tangle of low trees and bushes to my right. Everything about it is enticing – the shade, the cover, the likely abundance of edible herbs and insects. It's so close as well. I could disappear into its branches in less than five minutes.

_It's a trap_, I realize. There's something too convenient – almost sinister – about the nearness of a safe haven in so formidable a landscape. The forest provides easy cover for those who cannot rely on their strength or speed to keep them alive elsewhere. On the other hand, it's sparse, relatively small, and close to the Cornucopia and water supply where the Careers will inevitably set up camp. A lure for the unwary, to set up a bloody first act before the hunters turn to their worthier opponents in the prairie.

That's clear enough, but it presents a direct and pressing fear. Where am I to go? I won't let myself fall into the Capitol's snare. But if the only alternative is the open plains ... I might as well throw myself off the starting plate and end it all right now.

Keenly aware that time is almost gone, I swivel in place to see what lies behind me. The bulk of the arena spreads out in a rippling tawny sea. There, far on the horizon, is a dark smudge. I don't know what it might be – forest, cliffs, hills – and I don't care. This is what the Capitol would do. Reward the strong, the ones who prove their daring rather than take the easy way out. The reasoning is sickening, true, but it's where I'm going to go.

The gong sounds, and I take off.

With my back to the Cornucopia, the only indication I have of the impending chaos is the thundering of many feet behind me. The tributes must be running for the bounty, the nation holding its breath as the clash draws nearer and nearer. Any second now, the bloodbath will begin. Swords clashing, knives meeting flesh, fists breaking bones, the same scenes I've watched in revulsion for years – and I never saw where Arkel was...

Against every instinct, I stop and turn around just as the first shriek rents the air.

I immediately wish I hadn't. I doubt that anything, drink or time or even death, will erase the image now burned into my mind. Ciara stands paralysed at the edge of the plates with a spear thrust through her lower back and out her chest. She sways alarmingly as the boy from 4 approaches, her hands reaching out for help that will never come.

Talee's voice rips through my mind. It's only one word, not pitying but a demand. _Run!_

I don't wait long enough to see Ciara fall. I can't even spare a glance to see if her killer is pursuing me. The screams of the dying propel me forward with a speed I never knew I possessed. Nothing I've heard on television, not even the cries of Beetee's victims, could have prepared me for this chorus of human agony. With each footfall the same thought shoots through my mind. _There's nothing you can do about it. Nothing you can do. Nothing you can do. _

I run blindly, stumbling over tussocks of grass, tearing the earthy ground into dust. Everything I've felt thus far – terror, anger, grief, humiliation, desperation – is fuel, urging me on long past the point when my body begs me to give up. Time disappears. The world fades to a blur of golden-yellow. Nothing exists but me, flight, and this animal fear.

After some point, the screams stop. I'm not sure if it's because the bloodbath is nearly over, or that I'm simply too far away to hear it. Staggering to a halt, I chance another glance back. The Cornucopia is nowhere in sight.

I do nothing but stand there for a moment, half-laughing and half-crying in a bizarre mix of relief and shock. The physical effects of my long run soon appear alongside the emotional confusion. Every limb trembles from exertion. My breathing is ragged, each exhale tearing at parched lungs. The sunlight has intensified from pleasant to oppressively hot. It's worsened by my long-sleeved shirt, which I didn't have time to remove and now feels like a layer of fire.

Despite my exhaustion, I know there's no way I can stay here. My destination – which now seems to be some sort of ridge – appears closer than before, but it's still a long way off. I'll have to set off soon if I want to reach it before sundown.

I peel the sweaty over-shirt from my body and tie it around my waist. The tank top is also glued to my skin, but it at least exposes my arms. A trace amount of coolness lingers in the air, and it's such a balm that I detach the bottoms of the pants without hesitation. These are rolled up tightly and stuffed into my shirt pockets. I readjust the sunhat, which was dangling around my neck by its strap, and slip on the glasses I'm amazed weren't crushed in my death grip. I've never worn a pair before, so the dark veil they cast over my surroundings comes as a welcome surprise.

What I need more than anything is water, but I haven't seen any since the Cornucopia. However, I'm too preoccupied with flight to entertain more than a vague sense of worry. If my suspicions about the arena's design are correct, the Gamemakers will have placed at least some form of water at the faraway hill. If not, I'll just have to hope some sponsor is impressed enough by my perseverance – or moved enough by my plight – to donate a bottle. Settling for cooling my forehead with spit, I continue on.

~~0~~

I travel for the rest of the day, stopping only occasionally to catch my breath and re-moisten my skin. The prairie is omnipresent, with the only changes to its monotony being the occasional tree or boulder. Just as Fabriola instructed, I force my goal to remain at the forefront of my mind. There's scarcely a moment when my eyes stray from the growing shape in the distance.

One of these instances occurs not too long after I begin my trek. The cannons signalling the end of the bloodbath ring out, each one announcing the death of another tribute. Ten in all. Ciara plus nine others.

What little I witnessed of the massacre surges through my mind. It's with some difficulty – and even more shame – that I force them away. I knew when I made my promise to Talee that I could not do anything more than spare the other tributes. Any attempt to save them would be breaking her trust, or have resulted in my death as well. At least, that's what I tell myself to keep the guilt and bile down. My efforts not to think of Arkel are less successful.

By the time I reach the ridge, the weariness in my limbs and head suggests that it's nearly evening. Judging by the sky, however, it's nowhere near that late. Brilliant sunlight radiates off the surface of the rock, which erupts out of the plain as a magnificent red mesa. Around its base the ground rises up like a cresting wave, sun-baked grass giving way to stone. The burrows of some small animal dot the slopes, hopefully promising something edible. I don't have anything with which to make snares, but I'm so hungry I think I could catch something with my bare hands if I really tried. Why on earth didn't I make myself eat more for breakfast?

As I approach the plateau, I realize it isn't entirely one piece. A narrow gorge divides the rock into two separate cliffs, winding its way through the stone before turning sharply. The butte closer to me is as steep and unpromising as those back at the Cornucopia. However, the other, while still daunting, offers a rocky trail up one side. I can't see what's atop.

The decision facing me is the same as at the start of the Games. Which way to go? The uphill path is unquestionably more difficult a route. I'm tired and thirsty, and an arduous ascent under the scorching sunlight doesn't sound inviting. The canyon provides both cover and shelter. On pure instinct, I find myself heading towards its opening.

The massive shadows of the cliffs engulf me, wiping away every trace of the blazing plain. Gratefully I speed up my pace. Before I know it, I've stripped off my hat and sunglasses in exhilaration. It's so nice here, so secluded...

It hits me without warning. A cold trickle of unease. I shouldn't feel this comfortable in the Hunger Games.

A few moments more and I realize why. There's something not right about this place. The sheerness of the walls, the only opening shrinking behind me, the uncertainty of what lies around that corner ... for all I know, it could be a dead end. Why didn't I see it before? It's just like the forest – no, worse. There, the underbrush would have held many escape routes if I was attacked. I'm being lured into something from which there may be just one.

_It's just like the Capitol, too_, I think, cursing myself for being tricked. _Fool the unwary who choose the easy way; reward the strong who don't. _

The silence is sharper now, the shadows more ominous. What must they be seeing at home, or in the Capitol, at this very moment? Is the camera trained on some monster at the end of this ravine? Does some Gamemaker wait anxiously, finger poised over a button that will block the way I came? Is it already too late to run?

I turn and bolt. Every footfall unleashes a new terror in my mind, but I'm at the opening before I know it. No mutts. No traps. Nothing but the prairie heat, almost welcome after the gorge's now-eerie chill.

There's only one place to go now. Panting, trembling but alive, I begin the climb.

~~0~~

Life in a factory district has never suited our tributes well when it comes to physical activity, and I am no exception. The journey up the mesa is just as slow and strenuous as I feared. Pebbles slide under my feet. Large boulders prove nearly impassible. The sunlight never relents. To its credit, though, the path meanders rather than leading directly upwards. The Gamemakers have also provided a flatter section at about the halfway point, covered in gnarled bushes and more of the little burrows. Several times, I'm greeted by the snout of some small, furry animal which retreats as quickly as it came.

I reach the summit after what feels like an hour. Atop this flat stretch of rock, I have a stunning vantage point of the rest of the arena. As I suspected, the plains occupy more than three-quarters of it. Far to my left, they are covered in strange black masses, milling about repeatedly over the same area. Muttations, most likely. I make a mental note never to stray too far in that direction. Beyond my plateau, the plains extend indefinitely, albeit seemingly more muted. I'll chalk that up to a trick of the heat.

In the distance lies the Cornucopia, dwarfed to a golden speck beneath the cliffs. The strip of blue I saw earlier proves to be a lake. A thin ribbon snakes out of it and disappears into the forest. Seeing the green smudge wedged into a corner makes me all the more grateful I didn't go there. It's such a tiny portion of the arena, especially in perspective, and to be stuck in there with so many other tributes would be suicide.

In fact, while I can't be certain, it seems to me that that's where most of them are right now. Only one or two dots traversing the plains can be described as human-shaped – fortunately, none of them seem to be heading here; and if so, they would still have quite a while to go. As for the Careers, a telltale cluster has appeared between the lakeshore and the starting circle. That'll be their campsite. A convenient location for them, but mercifully far away.

There's nothing left to do now, I suppose, but explore my new residence. It's not exactly the oasis I was hoping for. It provides a troubling lack of water sources or – save for several bushes – vegetation. But, weighing the positives, I have reason enough to be satisfied. I'm safe out of harm's way, at least a day's journey away from the Careers, and should be able to see anyone coming from a long way off. Failing that, the sound they'd make clambering up the rocks would alert me for sure. Although there are trees to blend in with, I can always make do with sand like I did before the Gamemakers. Whatever lives in those burrows may make a good food source.

And, if nothing else, I could easily have been dead by now.

I consider returning to the flat section I encountered coming up and trying to see if I can somehow catch one of the tunnelling creatures. Fatigue weighs me down. The stress, hunger and thirst of the day must be combining to take their toll on me, as I feel unusually tired despite the fact that it's nowhere near dark yet. Just thinking about coming back up the cliff again is a strain.

Instead, I check to see if there are any edible insects on the bushes. No such luck, but the round, rubbery leaves are familiar from training. Digging one of my nails – still pristine from last night, which given the present situation seems almost laughable – into a leaf, I'm rewarded with a tiny droplet. I cram the whole thing in my mouth. The skin crunches deliciously and a sweet burst of water is released across my tongue. It takes all my restraint not to overindulge, as there are only three bushes and I don't know how long I'll have to stay here.

As I pick the last leaf of the day, something about the central bush catches my eye. Plants are scarce in District 3, with most of them being poisonous species left behind from the war. But even I know that most foliage sprouts from a central root. This thing is exactly the opposite. Its branches grow in a ring around a sizeable hole, screening it from view with their fat leaves.

Curiously I back up; examine it from all angles. Not visible. Not unless I look very closely. And there are none under the other bushes.

My pulse rises with excitement. This can't be a trap, can it? The Capitol surely wouldn't make, say, a muttation's den so hard to find. They'd have it out in the open where any unwary tribute could fall in. Just to make sure, I scoop up some pebbles, drop them tentatively in, and sprint a few good meters away.

Nothing happens.

A small triumph: I've found some shelter at last. It's hard to find a way to lower myself through the opening without snapping any of the branches, but I finally manage to squeeze in. What I find is a sizeable burrow, big enough to lie down in and lined with soft, cool earth. In a few seconds' time I'm rubbing it all over myself, not for camouflage but simply respite from the heat. The dirt is so powdery and the difference in temperature so great that I might as well be rolling around in snow.

As if determined to intrude on even this faint happiness, the Capitol anthem begins.

_Already? _This doesn't make sense. The death toll is only shown at night. It's still broad daylight outside, isn't it? I clamber out of my hiding place in confusion, only to be greeted with the same ubiquitous sun.

Is it always daytime in this arena, then? I struggle to come up with a reason why the Capitol might do this, but my mind is unusually sluggish – or, perhaps, not so unusually, given as it's apparently nightfall. Endless day will force the Careers to hunt in the sunlight, which will make them more tired ... but it'll make the rest of us more tired, too...

My analyzing is interrupted by the sudden darkening of a patch of sky, onto which the face of the Games' first victim is projected.

I can't describe the rush of mingled guilt and relief I feel when it's Ciara's. First and foremost in my mind is the fact that, somewhere out there, Arkel is still alive. He made it through. In the likely event of my death, there's still a chance that he'll go home. Yet with this euphoria comes remorse. What a bleak situation this is, that I'm already finding joy in a human being's death. From what little I knew of her, she was a good person. Completely undeserving of such a fate. The spear rigid in her body, her eyes bulging with fear, mouth agape and gurgling out blood...

_At least it's over for her now, _I remind myself. I'm not sure whether it's because I genuinely believe she's in a better place, or simply to push the memories out of my mind. Hopefully it's the former.

The next face is her district partner's. Brant, I think his name was. He was strong – it's a surprise that he didn't make it. Following him is terrified Agni from Six. I last remember her being beside me on the starting plates, but I have no idea where she went after the gong. Unexpectedly, both Spruce and Imana from Seven are next; then Rayen from Eight and Fidda. The thought of her and Ciara giggling like old friends during training sends a pang through my heart. Both gone. Both dead.

Neither Orford nor his district partner appears in the death toll, but the Elevens have perished. With a twinge of shame I realize I've forgotten both their names. The final face delivers even more of a blow. Little Jash.

_So this is what comes of all the build-up, _I think sadly, staring at the boy's serious face. _No unforeseen skills. No great surprises in store. Nothing for him but death. Would it have happened this way if it wasn't for all the fame? _Something tells me the Careers might have ignored a scrawny thirteen-year-old if he hadn't stolen so much of their spotlight. All I can hope for is that when his death came, it wasn't at the hands of the monster from Four. She would have shown no mercy.

Ciara, Brant, Agni, Spruce, Imana, Rayen, Fidda, Jash, the Elevens. I make a silent vow, here and now, not to let these people fade into obscurity. If I get out of here, I'll find some way to memorialize them. And if I don't, well, it won't be after having forgotten their faces.

Jash's picture fades away, the inky square of sky reverting to bright blue. The reappearance of the summery heat cannot warm the coldness inside of me.

It's only now that I realize exactly how overwhelming the past twenty-four hours have been. Not only has my own life been in peril, but I've said my last goodbyes to Fabriola, seen an innocent girl murdered before my eyes, heard others dying behind me, cheated death twice and been pushed beyond my own physical limit. Could I possibly have imagined, one week ago, that I'd ever be in this situation? And one week from now, where will I be? The rest of the Games loom before me, ominous and uncertain. It will only get worse before it gets better, if it does at all.

Not only that, but I'm acutely aware of my own loneliness. It's not as if I was ever surrounded by company back home – far from it – but there was always dad to wave me off to school, Talee to cheer me up after a long shift at the factory. Even in the Capitol there were Beetee and Fabriola and Arkel. Now I'm completely isolated. I never thought I'd mind this, but I do.

_If only I'd allied with Arkel, _I think involuntarily. _At least I'd have the certainty that someone around me doesn't want me dead. _

Alarm signals flash in the back of my wearied mind. _You're not supposed to want him here, remember? It's too dangerous for both of you..._

_I know, I know._

As for the rest of them, they must be watching me right now. I wonder what they are thinking? Relief, certainly, but anxiety and fear as well. Surely all this is just as harrowing for them as for me.

Fixing my eyes upon a spot in the sky in hopes a camera will be picking this up, I roll my token off my wrist and squeeze it tightly. It's not much consolation, but I hope they take it for what it is – a sign that I'm not giving up. At least, not yet.

Slipping the cloth back over my wrist, I return to the bush-burrow. After a few moments of arranging myself so that the protruding sunlight is to my back, I curl up and shut my eyes. Hopefully soon, this day will disappear, and its troubles along with it.

~~0~~

My eyes flash open. Were they closed? I can't remember having fallen asleep. I don't know how I could have, judging by the light slanting into my den. Is it morning already? No, that's right; it was never night... Then what woke me up?

In answer, someone shrieks. It's a girl's voice, young, and terribly close. Somewhere below me. With a sickening pang, I know what's happening without even seeing it. Whatever lies beyond the bend in that canyon has found its first victim.

Her cries pierce the air again, this time mingling with a horrific cacophony of growling and snarling. I don't want to imagine what's happening as she wails for her parents and sister in pure terror. Every ounce of my being screeches at me to help, but my body won't move. It already knows it's too late. Even if I made it down the cliff in time, then what? I have no weapons. I would achieve nothing but robbing two families of their daughters instead of one. Futilely, I shrink into a tighter ball, hoping each new pained sound will be the last.

I don't know how long I lie there before the cannon finally blows. The line between dreams and reality is so blurred, with her screams continuing to echo through my sleep, that it might not have sounded at all.

~~0~~

**So that's it, then. I'm not too sure about how this went, seeing as it's one of the first arena chapters I've ever written, so any feedback would be very much appreciated. I'd love to hear what you think! **


	10. Chapter 10

**I don't really have any excuse for the long wait you've all had to endure. All I can really say is that, if you're still reading and reviewing, I can't even express my gratitude.**

~~0~~

It takes all my willpower to leave the safety of the bush burrow the following morning – at least, what feels like morning, seeing as the sky is still as uncompromisingly blue as ever. The confines of my shelter have stiffened my joints and covered my clothes with dust, but what greets me outside makes me doubly grateful I was hidden last night.

Evidence of the carnage is splashed over the walls and floor of the canyon I almost strayed down yesterday afternoon. Even from my vantage point atop the plateau, I can see the telltale dark stains marring the rocks. Pawprints of similar hues reveal the attackers' movements, illustrating the tribute's desperate flight in more detail than I can bear, then retreat into a deep fissure in a bloody trail.

Who suffered this terrible death? It was definitely a girl from the sound of the voice, but I'm not entirely sure who all is left since the bloodbath. The Careers, definitely, and me – of whom none could possibly be the victim – and Dimity from Eight. Orford's district partner. I don't believe the girl from Twelve was in the death toll, either.

Out of those, it was probably her or Dimity. The Ten is older, from what I remember, while the screams that penetrated my sleep were young, childlike, terrified – though I assume anyone would sound that frightened in such a situation –

Giving into the impulse I've been resisting since boarding the hovercraft, I keel to the side and vomit.

I don't want to be here. I don't want to see any more of this. The fear, the guilt, the echoes of the dying victims are inescapable. At least back home I had school and work and Talee to form some sort of barrier, however weak, from the horror of the Games. Here, nothing holds back the flood.

_Focus on something, _I urge myself, uneasily realizing that I've curled my knees up to my chest in a sort of defensive position. _Find food. Find water. Anything to keep from dwelling on all of this. _

Yes. Just like working in the factories. Occupy your mind with something and drive out everything else. Fingering the white fabric around my wrist, I rise back to my feet.

Before I can forget, I kick some sand over the pile of vomit and attempt to smooth it out. I don't want anything to betray my presence if someone comes along. Just to be safe, I cast a glance back out at the savannah, but no dots are traversing it today. Even the distant Cornucopia seems still. I suppose even Careers need to sleep.

A brief breakfast of juicy leaves rekindles awareness of my hunger and thirst. My lips are dried and cracked from yesterday's long run, and the respite given by the plants is brief. If I want to have any chance of surviving, I'll have to put all my energy into finding water by the end of today. I'm certainly in need of better food, too, but the instructors in the training center made it clear that one can dehydrate far more quickly than starve.

In the slight chance that my continued survival has impressed any sponsors, I tilt my face towards the sky. They must have cameras there to film overhead shots of tributes on the plateau. Beetee is surely watching. If not, hopefully I look either pitiable or determined enough to sway Maybell.

"Water?" I ask. My voice is quiet from lack of use, so I repeat my request again more loudly. "Please?"

I count. Ten, twenty, sixty. Twice. Nothing happens. I can't say I was expecting much.

I switch my focus back to what I've learned in training. I've retained most of it quite well. The four signs of dehydration – well, I definitely have the dry lips and tongue, but I can't check my urine now and the skin of my hands isn't too taut. The instructor stressed the obvious precaution staying out of the sun and working only when it's cool, but that's hard to do in a perpetually sunny arena. What else was there? Water flows downhill – not much help for me, seeing as I'm at probably the highest point in the arena…

It is, however, found alongside abundant animal life. And whatever killed that girl needs to drink something.

Pulse rising, I return to the cliffside and glance over the edge. What I see nearly drives me back. Something – no, more than one something – has emerged from the cave. Their massive, catlike forms, tawny pelts and thick ruffs of hair ignite a memory of some past Game. I've seen a creature like this once before. I can't remember what the announcer said it was called, but I do recall the chatter among my schoolmates over how the Gamemakers could possibly have bred such a strange muttation. I was young enough for it to inspire quite a few nightmares.

Whatever the beasts are, they take their time in stretching, yawning, and – to my horror – licking traces of redness off their paws. The sun glints off massive saber teeth. I can only pray that the girl's death came before they tore her limb from limb.

They pad towards the base of the cliff, and for one insane second my body commands me to run as all I can think is _they're going to climb up. _Just as quickly, the impulse subsides and rationality returns; the face of the plateau is impossibly steep and the gentler slope I took is nowhere near. I lay on my stomach to peer over at what they are doing and my spirits rise when I see what has caught their attention.

The creatures have gathered around a small pool.

As quickly as the excitement comes, so too does panic. How on earth am I supposed to retrieve it from here? How very like the Gamemakers, to put such a commodity tantalizingly out of reach. No doubt the layout was meant to lure a stronger, braver tribute into a battle against the muttations. Perhaps they're engineered to retreat once one or two of their number have been killed – I doubt any of us, save possibly the Career pack all together, could defeat them all, but they could at least put up a more entertaining fight than the last victim did. What a treat for the Capitol, watching us struggle and kill and die for a drop of water. Survival of the fittest. No different than the beasts themselves.

I grit my teeth, stewing in frustration and the heat of the day. The cool, clear water seems to mock me from so far below. Running my tongue over my lips yet again, I note with a stab of anxiety that they both feel like rocks. _You still have time, _I think, frenetically shuffling through every water-gathering technique I've learned in training. _Dehydration can't kill until three days. And there are always those leaves. There's still time…_

If only I had something long enough to reach down there. It couldn't be that hard. Nor that expensive…

It comes to me in a burst of ingenuity.

"Beetee," I say clearly, looking back up at the sky, "I'd like some string. And a cup. Thank you."

I begin counting, but this time it's not even a minute before the parachute appears. The silver shape swells from a pinprick to a filmy bulge of fabric, catching the sun's rays and scattering them back through the sky. It lands several meters from me. I run over, lift up the cloth, and examine the precious donation beneath. A spool of sturdy, white string rests upon the ground. Apparently a cup is too expensive, but in its place lies a sizeable square of tin foil.

Certainly it doesn't look like much. It's likely all my sponsors could afford. But I can practically see Beetee hunched over the screen, perhaps beneath the sceptical glances of his fellow mentors, muttering words of encouragement. "Come on, Wiress, figure it out … figure it out and show them all what you can do."

I don't hesitate to obey. The foil can be molded into a decent bowl-shape, and a few of the knots taught in training prove handy in looping the string around it. Some pebbles make their way into the container to weigh it down. Although I trust Beetee enough to assume he wouldn't have given me an insufficient length of string, I take the precaution of tearing strips of fabric off my pant bottoms and tying them to the opposite end. I can never be too careful, and with my shelter and the heat of the arena, it's far less important to be fully covered than fully hydrated.

Slowly, slowly, the little contraption inches its way towards the prize below. It must take half an hour for it to even touch the pool, but I absolutely cannot risk lowering it too quickly. If it falls, I have no chance of returning it. At long last it returns, flowing over the brim with precious water. Yet another small success.

I remove the string and set it aside while mulling over how best to purify the liquid. A cleansing tablet would be the easiest solution, but I can't rely on Beetee for everything, especially after he just sent me all this. Instead, I scour my plateau for materials for a fire – parched grass from the open space below, stringy bark from all three of the bush-burrows, branches snapped off those I'm not sheltering under – and pile it on the ledge halfway up the trail. It's not much, but it should be enough to boil the water, and the small quantity in addition to its dryness means it'll burn quickly without much smoke. Taking extra caution yet again, I start the fire in one of the small, uninhabited tunnels. Thin wisps of smoke curl out the hole not covered by my bowl, but they're inconspicuous enough against the bright blue sky that with any luck I won't be noticed. Not to mention the fact that my current location is relatively low and hidden by the other side of the canyon.

A flurry of movement startles me as I sip the piping hot water. Two beady eyes blink out of a nearby burrow. After a tense moment I think whatever it was is gone, but then one of the rat-like animals I glimpsed yesterday pops its head out. I catch a glimpse of a lithe, striped body and long tail before it darts into another small opening.

_The fire must have scared it, _I think. The creatures don't look particularly dangerous. However, I haven't eaten anything but leaves since the trip to the arena, and the sight of possible game only intensifies my hunger.

Ensuring my water is far enough away that I won't accidentally spill it, I peer into the hole from which the thing came. Fur rustles; more eyes glisten. Its fellows are either unaffected by the fire or too frightened to risk emerging. I'm going to figure out which.

Carefully, I pick up a smoking stick and poke it into their tunnel.

They shoot backwards like bullets.

Excitement mounting with this new discovery, I search my surroundings for something to catch one with. The ever-present red rocks are scattered about, but something squirms uncomfortably inside me at the idea of bludgeoning anything. With all I learned about snares in the training center, I might as well set up a trap. My string will have to do.

The scraggly bushes clinging to the cliffside aren't as sturdy as the fake trees available in training, but I'm still able to rig a respectable twitch-up snare dangling in front of the tunnel exit. Holding my breath, I snatch another burning stick and wave it in front of the hole I'm most certain the creatures have retreated towards.

_Snap! _The bent-over bush whips back into position. Writhing, clawing and rasping, the noose strung around its neck, is one of the creatures.

Panic seizes me. _It didn't work; you did it wrong; you'll have to kill it yourself or it'll get away – _

With an almost animalistic lunge, I fling myself on top of the animal, dragging the entire trap to the ground. The thing thrashes about with a strength I hadn't thought it capable of. Wriggling violently, it frees its head from my grasp and snaps out with surprisingly sharp-looking teeth. Concerned with little else than keeping those fangs away from my hands, I slam my body downwards again. This stops the creature from escaping, but has little other effect.

Desperately, I scrabble around with my free arm and seize whatever weapon I can find. The jagged rock smashes onto the creature's temple, once, twice, three times. Something snaps with a spray of warm wetness and I feel a shudder run through its tiny form.

Fighting back the urge to vomit yet again, I pick myself up off the ground. The rat-thing is definitely dead. Blood from its head wound drenches the front of my shirt. My hand is still clenched, trembling, around the killing weapon. It's strange; not a minute ago the thing was scuttling around alive, and now it's dead, just dead, because of something I did-

_Stop that. _Talee's voice in my mind again, her words swift and sudden as a slap to the face. _You're alive. You're not injured. You have food. That's all that matters. _

With a twinge of shame, I recall her tear-struck face, Ciara's dying agony, the tribute screaming in the gorge. The ten solemn faces in the sky. Far worse things have happened here than what I've just done.

So I busy myself with skinning, gutting, and eating the first real food I've had in a day, all the while wishing I had Talee, or Arkel, or even Beetee, to take my mind off this panic even for a moment.

~~0~~

Someone's coming.

I first notice it when I return to the top of the mesa around what feels like noon. At first, I dismiss the dot on the edge of the forest as too far away to present danger. However, a few minutes of watching confirms it's steadily moving closer. It's definitely only one person, so unless they've split up unusually early and peacefully, the Careers are ruled out. But that doesn't mean it's not a threat. While I'd certainly like to believe none of the non-Careers would be willing to kill on only the second day, years of watching the Games have proven otherwise.

A sickening chill, unwelcome despite the blazing heat, sweeps across my skin. How could I have known the other tributes would come this way so early? I'd counted on them to choose the shelter of the forest rather than brave the barren expanse of plain. Although – another chill unnerves me at the realization – although _I _managed to do so, and so did whoever fell victim to those horrid beasts. So why did I think encountering another tribute was so out of the question…?

_Whatever you thought doesn't matter now. Focus. _Retreating from the edge of the cliff just in case I'm visible against the sky, I weigh my options.

Could I run? The idea seems foolish. In the time it would take me to get back down to the ground, the advancing stranger could already be here – and then what would I do? I can't fight, and fleeing would be equally ineffective, especially if they have a long-range weapon. It seems I'll have to take my chances with hiding.

Fighting hard to remain calm, I scrounge up everything I've learned in the training center, only vaguely aware that I've begun pacing in a circle. Thank goodness I'd hidden all evidence of my fire down on the ledge; it would have been a dead giveaway that someone's here. I scan the ground to see if I've left any obvious footprints, but the scant layer of dust atop the rock betrays little evidence. Then there's my water-fetching contraption – hurriedly I scoop it up, dump it down the bush-burrow, and hoist up a leg to follow it.

Just before I can drop into the hole, something about the shrubbery catches my eye. While parts of the other two bushes have been stripped of their foliage, I've refrained from removing any cover from the one hiding my shelter. I'd figured that this would disguise my hiding place more, but my fear-sharpened senses realize it's only made it stand out. If the newcomer has a keen eye, they'll notice the discrepancy – and it's only reasonable to deduce that a human was responsible.

With fumbling fingers, I rip a few leaves off random areas of the central bush. Hopefully this'll make it less conspicuous. Hopefully it looks arbitrary enough to have lost its leaves naturally. Hopefully I'm right about this in the first place.

I don't spare another second in scurrying into my bush-burrow.

Here, in the pressing silence, a shaft of sunlight my only illumination, the severity of the situation stares me in the eye. I'm no longer a bystander, watching and dreading this scene from afar. I'm an actor in the drama itself. This, more than anything, is real. If whoever is approaching finds me in here, I'll have nowhere to run, nothing to protect myself with, perhaps no time to think. My only hope is that they will be merciful.

_If they just give me a chance to talk, _I decide, _I'll offer an alliance. _It may not have been my ideal solution in training, but neither was this my ideal situation. As repellent as the trauma of befriending another tribute only to be turned upon is, it's preferable to the immediate pain of death.

_I'll show them how to catch food. Share my water with them. Tell them not to go into the canyon. I have enough survival knowledge to bargain with. They'll listen. _

Although, if they know how to survive on their own, they'd just kill me then and there…

_There's no guarantee they'll be on the offensive yet. It's only the second day. They're not a Career._

That's no reason to assume they won't kill.

_They're not trained. _

That doesn't mean they're harmless. And harmless doesn't always equal innocent. I've seen too much of human nature to believe that.

A footstep sounds from above.

Near paralyzed by a wave of fear, I curl up against the burrow wall. My breathing quiets to a hush. How could I have let it get so loud and frenzied?

The footsteps increase in volume and proximity, although they lack the speed I'd expect from a more confident tribute. The intruder approaches, then halts. A gentle sound of snapping comes from directly above me.

Are they breaking the branches? Or just the leaves? Do they suspect someone's hiding in the bushes?

The following minutes reveal nothing but silence. Then the tribute wanders in view of the opening, and I'm hit by a relief more powerful than any I've felt thus far.

"Arkel!"

My district partner starts, glancing about wildly in every direction but down.

"Wiress?" he asks hesitantly. "Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me. Look down."

His eyes widen in surprise as he discerns the mouth of the burrow amidst the tangled branches. "Never would've seen you down there. W-what are you doing?"

"Hiding, of course," I answer, pulling myself up through the hole to meet him. He doesn't look too worse for wear, albeit sweaty and tired. A few of the juicy leaves are clutched in one of his hands. "I saw someone coming from a ways off. I had no idea it was you."

"Ah, you've got a point. Sorry about that." He rubs a hand behind the back of his neck, whether from embarrassment or the heat I don't know. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"That's fine – but how've you been doing?" I press on, eager to hear his version of the first day. "Er, maybe that's a stupid question. I guess I mean, where've you been sheltering? Have you come across anyone? How did you think to come over here?"

"I didn't follow you, if that's what you mean," he answers quickly. "I know you didn't want an alliance. I just-" His voice cracks abruptly, torn by a harsh cough.

"Oh, right, you must be thirsty!" Mentally berating myself for not remembering how dehydrated I was after the long trek, I retrieve my water-carrier from the burrow and set to work lowering it towards the pool. The beasts from this morning have vanished; probably shading themselves in the cave. Arkel looks on in a mix between bemusement and gratitude as I pull up a bowlful of the clear liquid.

I start to tell him that we'll have to boil it, but he interrupts me by pulling something out of a small drawstring pouch around his neck. It's an iodine tablet. "Got this from, er, the Cornucopia. For purifying the water."

"Perfect."

As we wait for the water to clean, I relate what I've done so far, excluding the deaths I've witnessed. Somehow, they seem less real in light of Arkel's sudden reappearance, as if the presence of another human being puts the atrocities back behind a screen. My district partner nods in understanding as I relay my knowledge of the leaves – apparently there are similar bushes in the forest, although he hadn't seen any with burrows underneath – and the small creatures inhabiting the tunnels, which he glimpsed on his way up.

His thirst finally assuaged, Arkel thanks me and continues his story.

"I ran right at the gong and hid in the forest. It's not very big – kind of sparse, too, and I kept running into people. Most of them just went on their way when they realized I wasn't going to hurt them, but the guy from 9 only let me go because it was the first day. I slept in the bushes overnight, but when I woke up I thought I'd better get out of there as soon as I could. I saw this place in the distance and, well, I figured someplace hard to get to would probably be the safest. Thank good old District 3 intuition, I guess."

He smiles tentatively at the thought, as if pride in his own brains is something he's new to admitting. His glimmer of happiness is contagious; I find my own face melting into a grin as well. The action is unfamiliar and stings my parched lips.

"Well, take some credit," I say. "You thought of it yourself."

"Er, thanks."

We simply sit for five minutes, having exhausted the few conversation topics available in the Hunger Games. I take another sip of the water, then give the rest to him to drain. Upon finishing, he stands, glances about, makes as if to move away, and then looks back. His expression is torn, but between what I can't tell.

"Look – I know you said you didn't want an alliance, but…" He pauses, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Seeing as we're both here, and we're probably going to stay here for a while, maybe we could agree on some sort of … mutual, er, association-"

I stare at him, conflicted. Everything I've felt since the starting gong, fear and loneliness and wild instinct, has overshadowed my insistence on isolation. The conviction that was so strong in training now feels worn; beaten; irrelevant. Wasn't I willing to ally with an unknown tribute to save my life just an hour ago? More than that, now that I've spent time with perhaps the only person for miles with no desire to kill me, can I really let him slip away?

"Forget what I said," I decide. "We can have an alliance."

His face lights up. "Really? But – I don't want to make you-"

_Don't make me regret this, please. _I shake my head firmly, more to assuage my own doubts than his. "We're allies now. Just promise me one thing. When – if – we get into the final five, we'll split up. I couldn't – I don't want to put myself in a position to hurt you."

He nods. "I know. I promise."

"Thank you."

I hope he understands how much I mean that. Memories of our conversation the night before the Games flit through my mind. Yes, I believe he does.

Another awkward pause, then he starts, evidently remembering something. "Oh! Since we're allies now, I guess I can show you everything that's in here."

He fumbles with the string around his satchel and spills the contents out. Several more iodine tablets, a box of twenty or so matches, and – an unpleasant sensation goes through me – a small, silver-bladed knife clatter onto the ground.

"Not that much, but I think it's pretty good, don't you?"

"Mm-hmm." Something about his story doesn't add up. "And you got all these from the Cornucopia?"

"At the bloodbath, yeah."

"Even though you said you ran straight at the gong?"

"Eh?" I fix my eyes upon his face, which is paler than usual and twisted with discomfort. "Well, technically, I did, but-"

He sighs. "I guess it's no use keeping secrets. Don't look at me like that; it's not what you think. Well, not all of it. But – see, I was running away down this little trail through the woods. The girl from 7 was behind me. She was faster than I was, I guess; she'd gotten these from the Cornucopia and was trying to pass by. Then – I didn't even see it happen, but I heard a thump, like something fell to the ground, and I – it was stupid, but I stopped, I looked back, and there was an arrow in her head. I ducked down, in case whoever shot it would fire again, and I crawled over to the girl and took her bag. And then I ran."

I blink. The story's unpleasant, of course, but nothing incriminating. "Why didn't you want to tell me this?"

Arkel flushes ashamedly. "I thought you'd count it against me, maybe; tell me I shouldn't steal from the dead, or that I should've helped her. But she was past gone, Wiress. She had no use for supplies. It's better that they help people who're still alive, isn't it?"

He's right. Completely right about the supplies, and partially right in his fear I might scorn him for this. Had I witnessed that scene in the Games during any year before this, I would have held Arkel in disdain for robbing the fallen. Denounced him as just another pawn, all too eager to benefit from the death of a fellow tribute.

_That's absurd, _I realize. Could I really ever have looked down upon someone for holding survival above sentimentality in a situation like this?

"Don't worry," I say. "You didn't do anything wrong. After all, it's not like you killed her to take the supplies, right? And now we can use them ourselves."

There's a pregnant pause. As seems to be his habit, Arkel drops his gaze to the ground.

Something Beetee said to me, what seems like weeks and weeks ago, ripples through my memory. _What I don't understand is why you feel you have to act like this with me. I'm your mentor. You should know that you can trust me._

I choose my words slowly. "You know, you don't need to pretend anymore. You can be honest with me. I'm not going to judge you."

Not for the first time, my past self-righteousness sickens me. The fact that my ally expected nothing but condemnation from me stings like a wound. Is this how Beetee saw me, as well?

"What was her name?" he finally asks.

"Imana, I think."

"Well, thanks, Imana," he says, looking briefly at the sky, back towards his feet, then back at me. His expression lifts hopefully. "You're really not angry?"

"Not at all," I state. A light sensation, like I've released a breath I didn't know I was holding, accompanies the words. To further assuage his doubt, I refigure my features into a smile. "Now, how about we go catch some lunch? You must be hungry."

~~0~~

I spend the next several hours familiarizing Arkel with our surroundings. Just as in training, he's only too willing to follow instructions and make himself useful, but at least he doesn't seem to fear my disapproval anymore. In fact, his obedience seems an asset to both of us here. I've never been the one to take charge of a situation, to tell others what to do – but in Arkel, I have a ready supporter who offers little complaint.

He proves far more adept than I was at catching the tunnel-creatures. While he seemed only scrawny in comparison to the Careers and larger tributes, I notice a bit of wiry muscle to him as he wrestles the animals into submission before cutting their throats. He's fast, too, with excellent reflexes. _No doubt from all the running from Peacekeepers he did, _I muse darkly. It makes me wonder why he never showcased this skill in training. I figure that survival instinct must have brought out strengths he never knew he had.

Starting a fire with matches ends up just as difficult for me as it was in training. I flinch at each spark, causing Arkel to finally take over. Our lunch of skewered meat, while still stringy and somewhat burned, has the advantage of being prepared with an actual knife rather than a sharpened rock. Afterwards we return to the top of the mesa, and in lieu of anything else to do I begin to pace about the flat surface. The bushes are positioned rather close to the trail that leads up, and the spot directly above the pond is about halfway along. The rest of the plateau appears to be just a flat stretch of rock. Absentmindedly I walk towards the far end, trying not to let my mind dwell on anything in particular.

Without warning, my foot plunges through the ground, sending me reeling forwards. Somehow amidst my panic, I think to shift weight back, but it's a futile attempt. It's only when I feel firm hands around my arm that my head clears enough to realize how fast my heart is racing.

Arkel jerks me backwards onto solid ground. Together we watch, transfixed, as a deep crack arcs away from the hole made by my foot and spreads its jagged fingers across the far half of the plateau. I cringe in anticipation of the whole thing collapsing, but after a few minutes of tense silence, it appears that's as much as is going to happen.

"T-thanks," I pant once I am able to regain my breath. "Wasn't expecting that."

Arkel shakes his head dumbly. "Don't mention it."

Gingerly, I press my toes against the ground a bit in front of me. The rock remains firm for several feet until I reach the hole. There, the slightest tap sends forth another network of cracks. I jump back.

"No sense in trying to get over that way," I mutter.

My ally, meanwhile, is flat on his stomach near the edge of the cliff, peering over the side and directly to our left. He makes a noise of confirmation, pulls himself into a kneeling position, and calls me over.

"Take a look at this."

I obey. A powerful pang of relief goes through me as I notice what I nearly fell victim to. Whereas the part of the plateau we've stayed on is fully supported by the cliff, the section ahead of us is nothing but a thin layer of stone, bridging a gap to another solid area. The brittle surface is held up by various rock columns, but they are at least a meter apart, providing no easy route across.

"I guess I was wrong about this place being so safe," I say, more to myself than to Arkel, as I roll back up onto mercifully sturdy ground.

Arkel shrugs. "What's really safe here, anyways? We could be back in the forest, bumping into tributes every five minutes, always this close to getting k-"

Everything disappears.

Arkel's startled yell rips through the sudden darkness. I just manage to force back a similar sound, but my hands fly protectively in front of me nonetheless. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, flooding the silence with the illusion of noise.

"Get the knife out." I'm shocked to hear myself say those words, but honestly, what else is there to do? I can't see. I can't run if I can't see. Not that I can fight, either, but…

The whisper of metal against cloth reveals Arkel's followed my instructions. Feeling hesitantly about, I reach for his arm and move over to stand beside him. Yet again, we're powerless to do anything but stand there, frozen in wait.

Soon, however, it dawns on me that I'm not entirely blinded. The outline of the horizon has begun to creep through the gloom. I swivel my head in the other direction – yes, that's Arkel's silhouette. Pinpricks of stars fade slowly into being above, followed in several minutes by a ghostly disc of a moon low in the sky. Maybe this isn't some direct threat from the Gamemakers. Maybe it has no connection to the near-collapse of the plateau. It seems like they've just decreed night should fall at last.

I voice this theory to Arkel, who stammers in confusion.

"B-but – but – I thought it didn't get dark here."

"Me too," I confirm. "But I guess the Capitol wanted to shake things up a bit." It doesn't feel nearly late enough in the day for them to signal for us to sleep, so the only other explanation is that they've decided to release the Careers from the oppressive heat. The packs tend to hunt in the dark, after all. No doubt they've already been sent flashlights or night-vision goggles for just this purpose. "Think we should go back to the burrow?"

"I was just about to say that."

Struggling to make our way in the dark, the two of us stumble over to the familiar shapes of the bushes. Fortunately, the den is just big enough to conceal the two of us, so long as we keep our arms folded and knees tucked tightly against our bodies. The water-carrying apparatus sits atop our bag in the little available room.

"I'll take first watch," Arkel offers. His blurred figure rises into a half-standing position which must be just high enough for him to see out. I make out the glint of the knife in his hand, and a chill goes down my spine at the thought that we might soon have to use it.

The night claims its first victim about half an hour later. Arkel spots the hovercraft descending against the moon to the distant forest. It seems the careers, if they were responsible for the cannon, haven't come anywhere near this far. Still, complacency on our part would be dangerous. The hours drag, neither of us willing to risk speaking, each taking turns standing guard. My stomach grumbles come what must, in some slightly more civilized part of Panem, be suppertime, but we can't risk leaving. Even if we could find our way down the cliffside in the darkness, the light of the fire might attract someone. Arkel makes no indication of his hunger. With an uncomfortable twinge, I realize he's probably used to it.

I've lost track of how many times we've switched watch when the anthem makes its unwelcome return. I shuffle over to allow Arkel some room to look out the opening. Wordlessly, we watch as today's victims are projected over their shroud of black sky.

Dimity, the terrified young girl from 8, is first. I realize, when she is followed by the tall boy from 9, that she must have fallen prey to the muttations this morning. Thrust to the front of my mind is her dress during the chariot rides; pure white with bursts of red. I'd thought of her as a lamb to the slaughter. The memory of her blood smearing the ground confirms that I was right. Throat filling with bile, I double over and retch violently.

Lost in the fear and the hunger and the mounting list of names, _so many_ more names than I can hope to remember, I start at the hesitant brush of Arkel's hand. No longer dry-heaving but still bent double, I don't protest. He begins to rub my back in gentle, comforting circles. A futile gesture in the face of what lies ahead, perhaps, but a meaningful one all the same. Shyly yet gratefully, I do the same to him. While there's certainly nothing more than camaraderie on my part, it ignites something warm and new within me nonetheless. I've had acquaintances my age before, but none close enough to call friends. Now, in the Hunger Games of all places, I feel I do.

My worry fades away with the second day of the Games.


	11. Chapter 11

**What else can I say, but thanks for the reviews and for still reading despite the long wait? This one's a short chapter, but I couldn't find any way to make it work otherwise. Also, I'm going to try and have the next chapter up before I go to Europe, but it's pretty unlikely, so if there's nothing up by the 10****th****, there won't be any more until the 24****th****. Hope you guys enjoy!**

~~0~~

"No, no, you've got it wrong," Arkel chides, watching the tossed stone skid to a stop. "It's more like this."

Picking another pebble up off the sandy ground, he gives his hand an effortless flick. The little projectile sails through the air in a perfect arc before joining a cluster of its fellows further along the plateau.

"It's really all in the wrist," he says modestly, wiping dusty fingers against a pant leg. "Want me to help you?"

"It's no big deal," I reply. "If I can't get it this time, there's really no point in trying again. We're almost finished, anyway."

I take my aim, but, just like every attempt before, the result is laughable.

Arkel clucks his tongue sympathetically. "No luck."

"Or just no skill," I shrug. "It was the same in training, with archery and knife throwing and whatever else needs aim."

"I'm sure you're not that bad."

"You can be honest, remember?" An unfamiliar – but not unwelcome – teasing tone worms its way into my voice. "You play the Gamemaker – what's my score for this? Two?"

"Well – yeah, pretty much."

I find myself laughing, and it's a relief when Arkel joins in as well.

With nothing to occupy our third day in the arena but the occasional trip down to the ledge for food, we'd found ourselves making up ideas about how to get across the unstable section of the plateau. It wasn't anything serious at first – nonsensical schemes involving all manner of unrealistically expensive donations; the kind of chatter that the Capitol is sure to overlook in favor of some fight elsewhere. After all, from what the two of us can see, there isn't anything but barren rock at the far end anyways. However, it eventually occurred to us that there might be some sort of path leading downwards, and, in the hopes of finding a second escape route should we be ambushed, we began considering the idea more logically.

I was the one who thought of taking the supporting pillars into account, but it was all Arkel's idea to use pebbles to mark their locations – after many glances over the side to keep track of where exactly they are. My throws have resulted in several more cracks in mercifully remote areas of the thin surface, but Arkel's accumulated a few neat piles showing a safe route across. I never knew he had such an excellent throwing arm, although I suppose that's not a typical thing to need to know about your ally. Apparently he'd often play at it in the alleyways back home to entertain himself, but given his job as decoy for the District Three crime ring, I'm guessing more than one peacekeeper's window fell victim to his skills as well.

"Looks like we need just one more now," I say once our mirth has subsided. Peering down over the edge once more, I verify that there's still one unmarked column between here and the far side of the mesa. "It's at about … one o'clock, and maybe a foot away from the last pile."

"Thanks." Arkel lets loose another stone, but the resonant boom that follows is far too loud to have been its clatter.

Insides churning with a strange mix of emotions, I shift my gaze towards the vast expanses of the arena. It takes a few moments for the hovercraft to reveal the location of the latest dead tribute, but when it does, I'm grimly unsurprised to note that it's happened in the forest. Whoever's been killed ascends just above the tree line before disappearing along with the aircraft.

"I guess we'll find out tonight," I reply to the unasked question.

"Yeah," Arkel breathes; then, lowering his voice, "I know it's not right, but every time that happens, I can't help thinking – it's terrible, and all, but at the same time, it's-"

"One closer to home?"

"Yeah," he admits. "That sounds about right."

My instinctive reaction is to flinch, but it's buried as something rises up in challenge – something that protests Arkel's assessment is so true, so understandable_, _that it can't possibly be all wrong. At the same time, I can't quite bring myself to say it out loud; as if in admitting that a part of me agrees, I'd somehow be giving a seal of approval to the slaughter that has just taken place.

"You said I could be honest," Arkel says. His words are still quiet, but steadied with a composure that almost accuses my silence. "And that's all I'm doing, just saying how I-"

"No, no," I hasten to make myself clear. "I'm not judging you. In fact, I get what you're saying. I really do. It's very…" What word am I searching for, to describe how our current circumstances somehow bridge a gap between who I am and who I thought I could never be; how they colour that alien Wiress a less frightening shade of grey? "Very human, I guess."

"You think so?" Much like yesterday, the relief in his tone stings. Does he still not realize that I don't look down on him?

"Definitely. After all, it's not like you're dancing on their grave or anything. You're just – making the best out of a bad situation." Then, without really meaning to, "What else can they _expect_ us to do?"

"Who's 'they?' The Capitol?"

"No – not really, not at all-" I scramble for the right words to explain my outburst. I know what the Capitol wants me to do, of course. It's not them I'm trying to please. But whose expectations am I measuring myself against, then? My own? My family's? Those of my self-imposed moral standards? That feels like the right answer, but saying it would make me come across as even more of a sanctimonious prick than Arkel already seems to think I am. Not without good reason, I suppose.

"Never mind," I finish. "It just sort of slipped out. All of this is really getting to me."

"Yeah," Arkel says for the third time. "But don't worry. Like you said – it's only human." He seems to think something over, then continues, with a hint of distaste towards the end. "And, at the very least, we can be glad that whatever it was happened far away from here. Something more to keep them distracted. Wouldn't want them to get too bored with us, after all."

He's right – as long as the Capitol is entertained by events elsewhere in the arena, there's no reason for them to bother us. For now, others' suffering means our survival. Just because I don't like it doesn't mean I can ignore it. Yes, it's sick and wrong and not the way I want the world to work, but it's also invariably true.

I voice this much to Arkel, who merely gives a wry smile.

"Trust me," he says, and through his bitterness I catch a glimpse of the boy who's spent most of the last few years running from the lashes of peacekeepers. "I know everything about distractions. I'm just grateful it's not my turn to be one."

~~0~~

The fourth morning of the Games claims yet another victim as Arkel and I begin preparing breakfast. Jerked out of roasting our freshly-killed rat-creature, we glance around to make sure the coast is clear while the cannon reverberates off the cliffs around us.

"How many are left?" Arkel asks, once we've verified we're alone.

I run through the districts in my head, making note of those faces I've seen in the sky. It was the girl from Twelve who died in the forest yesterday. In her absence, there are us two, the six Careers, Orford, his district partner, and, against all odds – although I have no right to talk – the frightened boy, Daken, from Six. One of those is gone now as well. The answer to Arkel's question comes to me quickly enough, but it seems so unbelievable that I count the tributes several more times to be certain.

"I think we're the final ten."

Arkel's eyebrows shoot upwards. "Really?"

"Yeah…" I trace the number dazedly into the sand. "It was a pretty big bloodbath, right?"

"Mm-hmm." He seems just as stunned as I am.

It can't be possible. For the first time in what feels like months, but must really be less than two weeks, the faintest glimmer of hope appears on my horizon. _Could _I actually go home? I've practised and pleaded and prayed for my survival, of course, yet it all seemed a fool's chance until now. Until now…

With concerted effort, I force up a wall between these dreams and my current reality. It's still too early for this kind of thought. The inevitability of my parting with Arkel looms ahead, and I won't allow myself to think of what might happen afterwards.

In spite of my musings, a faint smile brightens Arkel's expression. "You know what this means, right? Once two more have – you know … they'll interview our families about us."

"Right." Like so many aspects of life outside the arena, the thought of my family being interviewed about my progress in the Games isn't something I've dwelt upon lately. "It's weird, I…"

"Never thought you'd make it this far?" Arkel puts in, not unkindly. "I know. Me neither."

He puts a hand on my shoulder. It's not completely necessary, as I'm more pensive than scared, yet somehow I feel I'd sooner forego any donation than shrug it off.

"What do you think they'll say?" I ask eventually, disliking the pressing silence.

"Dunno. We haven't really done much for them to talk about, have we?"

"We've survived this long."

"Yeah, but…" He removes his hand and drapes his arms around his knees. "Not a very interesting interview, eh?"

"I guess not."

I try to envision my family, seated in the same room where we said our farewells – somehow, I've always assumed the interviews take place in the Justice Building – facing a swarm of Capitol cameras. Dad would likely be as quiet and ashen-faced as he was the last time I saw him. As for Talee, I can't begin to imagine. I don't even want to. The thought of my little sister, always so confident and ready with a retort, shocked into silence by reality is unbearable. What could she possibly say in this situation? What could anyone, for that matter?

"I think my dad would be pretty quiet," I say finally, unsure of how to put it all into words, but feeling that, of anyone I've met since the reaping, the person most willing to listen is sitting right in front of me. "He never says much; I don't think he'd want to. Not to reporters, anyway. And my sister – I don't know. I don't think she'd give anyone the satisfaction of knowing her thoughts until she's sure of them herself." _That is, _I think privately, _until I come home, one way or another. _

Arkel pauses for a moment, seeming possibly concerned, then, "No mom, either?"

"I've never told you?" The thought is shocking, especially he confided in me that he's an orphan. Yet, try as I might, I can't remember ever having mentioned my mother's death to him.

"No, never." Empathy floods his face. "How did it – er, if you're comfortable with-"

"I was little, too," I say, eyes locked on the horizon past his shoulder. "Six, I think. It was when my sister was born. I wasn't there; it happened in the house – we couldn't afford a hospital room – and I guess my dad didn't want me to see. He sent me off to the neighbours'. I had no idea why."

Arkel says nothing; this seems an invitation to continue on.

"He was always trying to shelter me, even then." I laugh dryly. "Look at how well that turned out. But at least that was something I never had to see. There wasn't even any blood when I came back. They'd already taken her away; cleaned up every trace. It was like she was never even there."

"Do you think about it often?"

"No." The confession comes as a surprise even to me. "And I should, shouldn't I? It's – strange. I've seen and thought about kids dying since before I was old enough to go to school. But the person who I should miss the most – just disappeared."

"Maybe that's why," Arkel suggests gently. "Why you don't think about it, I mean."

His reasoning is sound. Perhaps, in another life, one where the execution of children isn't an annual sport and starving urchins aren't forced into crime rings, my mother's death would have sunk in more. It's as if I've been conditioned to viewing death as flagrant and final; a horrific display of blood and bodies. When it came as a silent killer in the night, I didn't even allow myself to recognize it.

And this coming from shy, quiet Arkel, the self-proclaimed follower. I'd thought him a blank slate in training. Now I'm amazed by how quickly he's filling it in.

"Well, I've told you mine," I say eventually. "What about your family?"

Arkel shrugs. "To be honest, I'm not even sure what my brothers would have to say about me. They've always been closer to one another – makes sense, since they were all they really had when mom and dad died. Like I said, I was the baby. They were a bit older. Still too young to work, really, but they did anyways. Some of our neighbours let us room with them for a while, until we got old enough to live on our own. Briston sometimes says we should be grateful, but then Camden'll just scoff. Says they waited until he was ten and then sent us packing. The way he sees it, he's the only reason why any of us are still around!"

He gives a short laugh, infused with something that might, in a better situation, have been humor.

"Though, to be honest," he continues, "they both had a pretty big hand in our making it. It was never easy to get by, even once all three of us started in the factories. We all took out tesserae when we got old enough, but my brothers were doing heavy lifting jobs while I was sorting lightbulbs or something; they always said needed the food more. Although Briston was actually the one who introduced me to" – he catches himself, recalling at the same moment I do that his thieving exploits probably aren't the wisest thing to share on national television – "to the family business. Both of them were pretty high up in it, I think, but it was his idea to get me involved. I was supposed to have a bigger role, but I kept messing up – just didn't have the confidence, I guess. They were pretty pissed. Anyways, that's how I got to be the – er – errand boy. It did help us scrape by, though, so I can't fault him there."

"They did it to help you out, though, right?" I prompt, initiating a nod from him. "So they must have some nice things to say about you."

"They've kept them hidden, then."

I think of Arkel's unexpected intelligence, his willingness to talk and comfort, even his confidence in some areas. "Things like this bring out lots of what people keep hidden."

"I guess so."

"Well," I press on, "if you don't know what they'd say about you, what would you _like _them to say about you?"

"I don't know." He turns his head so he's not facing me. "That they're proud of me, I guess, for lasting this long. That they're glad I'm their brother, even if it's just for a short time. Maybe even–" his voice chokes up long enough for me to wonder if he's going to cry, but then he continues, in a much darker tone – "that they would have done something differently, if they could go back."

"What?" I'm startled by the sudden shift in Arkel's voice. He's been understandably sombre up until this point, but this resentment hasn't been present since yesterday when he mentioned being a decoy. Or was it always there, and I merely missed it?

"Sorry," he says, "I've been trying to forget about this since the reaping, trying to focus on something else, thinking that if I made it, it wouldn't matter anyway, but now that we're on the topic, I just – I figure, why hold anything inside, especially when I don't even know how much time I have left?" He turns to face me fully, face an unreadable deluge of emotion. I can't say I'm used to making direct eye contact, but I don't turn away. "You're really okay with me being totally honest?"

"Of course," I say, hoping my sincerity carries through.

"All right, then." He takes a deep breath, readying himself. "I know it's not normal to – to expect anyone to v-volunteer, even for family, but-"

"What happened?" I ask, though I think I already know the answer. Just as he says, it's not usual for tributes outside of the Career districts to willingly throw themselves into the Games, especially not for altruistic reasons. I recall a few volunteers from when I was younger – a boy to defend his reaped girlfriend, a brother to protect a sister, and even, in place of his twin, the Ten who became one of the most murderous victors Panem can remember – but they were the exception that proved the rule. I can't even say that the thought of what I would do if Talee was reaped has ever crossed my mind. Granted, she's still too young for the Games, but an uncomfortable twinge runs through me as I wonder whether or not I would have had the courage to offer my life for hers if she had ever been reaped.

"Isn't it obvious?" Arkel mutters dejectedly. "I guess I never let on, but Briston's still of reaping age. Eighteen. When I was going up to the stage, I know it was probably cowardly, but – well, I was just scared – I looked right at him, standing there in his section, and I hoped with everything I had that he was going to volunteer. I never thought it through to him dying; it didn't connect. I guess I was just so scared. But anyways, he was staring right back, and – and he shook his head, it was really obvious – and it just kind of confirmed what I'd always thought, you know? That they never – they never-"

"Did they say anything about it in the Justice Building?"

He shakes his head. "Not really. They said they were sorry it happened, they'd miss me, and all that, but then Briston walked out, and Camden said that he knew I'd wanted him to volunteer, but I had to understand there was no way he could have, no hard feelings, but the family needed his income more than mine and – well, you get the gist of it."

I'm not sure how to respond. I feel like a stranger, stumbling accidentally into a private wake. His brothers' words are logical, of course, but devoid of the familial closeness and compassion I've taken for granted. And to have that be the last thing he heard, before being carted off to his probable death… "I – I'm really sorry, Arkel. I don't know what to say."

"Nothing to say, I guess," he sighs, dropping his gaze to the ground. He seems like one of the balloons I saw for the first time after Beetee won his Games; bursting with repressed secrets at first, then empty, deflated. "Of course, it's not like I _wanted _it to be him, or anything like that. He's still my brother. And I know it's selfish to have expected him to step up, even for just that moment, but – it's just-

"Human nature," I respond. "You know, that's probably how he felt, too."

"Think so?"

"For sure. There's no way he could have wanted you to be reaped, just like you wouldn't have wanted him to be – but he was probably just too scared to do go up on that stage himself, just like anyone else in that situation. I don't think it was because he didn't care. I bet he's watching this right now and wishing more than anything that you were safe in District Thr-" The thought of my own family doing the same rushes to the forefront of my mind, and I can't continue.

Arkel leans forward concernedly, but I force my face into a more relaxed position and the conversation onto a lighter route. "And you know, maybe they'll surprise you in the interview. People often can."

"Maybe you're right," he muses, leaning back so his weight is balanced on his hands. A strange, uncomfortable smile crosses his face. "Hopefully one of us will find out."

I wince. "Don't talk like that."

"Sorry."

A few moments of silence pass by – as well as a rather distinctive aroma.

I crane my neck over Arkel's shoulder, at our campfire concealed in one of the burrows. "Do you smell something?"

"Agh, no!" Arkel spins around to see a tongue of flame licking up the side of our breakfast. Lost in conversation, we must have completely forgotten about it. Hissing as he touches the hot sticks, my ally yanks the roasting spit away from the hole and rolls it in the sand to smother the blaze. I glance around for anything else that might catch easily, but there's nothing but dust and rocks. To my relief, the flames sputter out, and we hastily stamp out the rest of the sparks. Thank goodness for that. Water is scarce enough here without wasting any on fire extinguishment.

"Think it's salvageable?" Arkel asks ruefully, holding up the blackened creature by its tail.

"Let me see that." I take it in my hands, vaguely aware that I'm no longer as bothered by its limpness as I was after first killing one. Calling to mind everything I learned from the meat-preparing station, I examine what's left of our meal. "Looks like we caught it just in time. The outside's pretty much wrecked, but most of the meat's still edible – the organs are fine, and they're the most nutritious, anyway. At least, the ones that aren't full of acid. We should be able to pull them all out together, since they're mostly connected."

He laughs; a welcome sound after our long discussion. "Any other interesting trivia from training you'd like to share?"

"Oh, don't even get me started!"

Our banter bounces back and forth as we set to work skinning and slicing. All the while I wonder whether I would have smiled even once in the arena if it hadn't been for our alliance, and whether or not I will again after it ends.


	12. Chapter 12

**I just wanted to send out a big thank-you to everyone who's reviewed so far! Your words inspire me to keep on writing!**

~~0~~

Biting my lip, I bat a tangle of black hair out of my face and squat down further. Parched earth burns beneath my palms. I lean in closer to the mouth of the tunnel, on the alert for any sign of life.

"Find anything in there?" Arkel calls from behind.

"Just a moment." The contrast between the darkness of the burrow and the sunlight outside renders it impossible to see anything. It's not that which troubles me, however.

"I don't think so," I confirm grimly, pushing myself back to my feet. The last burrow on the ledge is as troublingly silent as the others. "Completely empty."

Arkel huffs. "Drat."

We awoke this morning, the fifth day of the Games, to find that none of the tunnel-rodents would leave their burrows when provoked. Suspecting they might simply have learned from the fates of their companions, we set to work investigating every hole for its occupants. However, the search has proved fruitless. Not only is there no sign of any of the creatures, but the usual telltale sounds of scurrying and rustling are absent as well.

I scrunch my mouth to one side, thinking. This is certainly poses a challenge to our plans to remain hidden, but I don't want to make a rash decision, either. "I'd say we should still stay here. At least for the time being. We've got the leaves, and it's more important to have water than food anyway. Who knows if we'll be able to find some anywhere else?"

Of course, the lake by the Careers' camp is the only other water source we know of, but I don't feel it's necessary to point that out. Neither, apparently, does Arkel.

"More to the point, if we leave, we're bound to run into some of the others. I'm sure that if worst comes to worst, Beetee will send us some food. Make sense to you?"

"I guess," Arkel concedes, "but…"

"But what?"

"It's just that-" He casts a glance in the direction of the open plain that makes up most of the arena. "I don't know, it's been a while since there were any cannons. Don't you think – maybe there's a reason those things disappeared?"

He has a point. No one's had their turn in the sky since Orford's district partner died around noon yesterday and we realized we were the final ten. Judging by training and interviews, she was a fierce competitor, too. Which leaves just us two and presumably the boy from Six as the only non-contenders left.

I'm brought back to what Arkel said regarding the deaths of the other tributes. _Something more to keep them distracted. Wouldn't want them to get too bored with us, after all._

The words are as brutally honest now as they were then. We've survived this long due to our location and our ability to survive on what little it offers, but a hiding place is worthwhile only as long as the Capitol allows it to be. Now the Careers have purged the forest all but clean. The audience must be itching for more action. And why send your beloved pack out on an arduous trek when you can force two other tributes out of hiding with the touch of a button?

We're the distractions now.

"You're right," I admit quietly. I'm not sure why – it's not as if the Gamemakers would punish us merely for acknowledging their interference. "They're trying to flush us out."

Arkel nods vigorously. "Exactly."

As much as I hate going along with the Capitol's plans, I have to agree it'd be suicide to stay. Still, that doesn't mean we can throw caution to the wind. "Running out of here without thinking isn't going to do us any favors either, though."

He cocks his head. "What're you saying? Should we wait?"

"Just until it gets dark," I explain. "It'll give us some time to figure out where we're going to go and what all we need to bring. Not to mention it'll be easier to travel when it's not so hot out."

Arkel seems lost in thought, so I add, "Only if you're okay with that, though."

"No, no, that's a good idea," he acknowledges. "It'll give us the advantage of not being easily seen."

"And we don't have to worry about running into the Careers, since it takes so long to get here that we'd see them coming from a long way off beforehand."

"Good point."

We hurry back up to the top of the mesa and begin sorting through our supplies. There's not too much for us to carry. Apart from our arena uniforms, all we have are my water-carrying contraption and Arkel's drawstring pouch. Stripping the three shrubs of their leaves occupies a relatively pleasant half hour. It doesn't matter now if we completely bare the branches; in fact, it's probably best that we make our presence obvious, just in case the Careers come along once we're gone. However long they spend investigating this place is time they won't be spending chasing us. With that in mind, I take care to snap off a few branches at precise angles and stack them up neatly to the side, as if left by a tribute interrupted in the process of gathering kindling.

After watching approvingly for a few moments, Arkel straightens up and surveys the surrounding plains.

"Wondering where we should go?"

"Close." He squints, one hand blocking the sunlight. "More like figuring out where we shouldn't."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Come over here, I'll show you."

I rise to my feet and stand beside him, trying to figure out what exactly is captivating his attention. My ally's gaze is fixed resolutely on the expanse of land behind the mesa. He moves as if to position me in the right direction, then seemingly decides against it and extends a finger towards the sky.

"Right there – can you see it?"

My forehead scrunches in concentration, but I can't make out anything, and the sun-glazed blueness soon stings my eyes. I shake my head.

Arkel shuffles closer beside me, still pointing. "Look harder. Maybe, uh, thirty degrees up?"

It takes a while of squinting, but eventually something – is it just the heat? – appears to flicker in the air. Experimentally, I close my eyes, then attempt to locate it again. Yes, it's definitely there – some sort of luminescent square, like a window in an invisible wall, wavering in place.

Arkel must notice my jolt of excitement. "Know what that is?"

I'm about to answer 'no,' but all at once, it comes together. Somewhere Arkel says we mustn't go. Hints of a glass-like barrier. Last year's Hunger Games. "It's a forcefield."

"Exactly!" My district partner's face is aglow; it strikes me that perhaps I'm the first person he's shared this knowledge with. "They're usually invisible, but not if you know where to look. Like a chink in the armor, or something."

"Did you know this from-" I begin without thinking. Arkel doesn't miss a beat.

"My work? Yeah. The Peacekeepers'd put them up around dangerous machinery or really valuable imports, so we'd have to know how to tell if they'd been lifted or not. You can get a nasty burn if you run into one, and then there's, you know-"

I nod swiftly. Neither of us needs to bring up the way Haymitch Abernathy used his arena's forcefield to deflect a Career's weapon back at her and win the second Quarter Quell. There's no sense in either of us heading in the direction of something so potentially dangerous, especially if it blocks us from travelling further.

"So, we won't be going that way…" I conclude rather lamely, looking back at the wide stretch of arena we've already crossed. There doesn't seem to be any place to hide which one of us hasn't already been to. "Do you think there's any point in going back to the forest?"

"Makes sense, doesn't it? If the Careers have already searched it, it'll be the last place they'll expect."

It sounds risky, but I can't deny its brilliance. "You said there was shelter there?"

He tilts a hand back and forth. "Not much, but more than anywhere else. There'll be enough for two people at least."

"Sounds good, then." I nod in affirmation. "After all, what better place to hide than right under their noses?"

~~0~~

The day ambles on like an overloaded wagon, too preoccupied with its own slow crawl to send so much as a breeze our way. It's not long before repeatedly verifying which route we're going to take to the woods, ensuring our campground looks sufficiently lived-in, and making note of all the supplies we have to carry has become mind-numbingly tedious. I return to the burrow, while Arkel says he's going to try one more shot at getting some food and sets off for the ledge.

I lie on my back in the cool dust, eyes on the disc of sky visible through the tunnel entrance. How much longer until we can leave? We seem to have been getting fairly normal amounts of sunlight versus darkness in the past few days; overlooking the abruptness of nightfall itself, it's seemed rather regular. I have no way of knowing if it'll stay like this, though. I'm not even sure how much time has passed since we woke up. It only feels a little past noon or so–

Someone screams.

Heartbeat skyrocketing, I fly out of the burrow and sprint down the path as best I can without my feet sliding over loose gravel. The noise was faint, but there's only one person I know who's close enough for it to have been heard. Relief washes away some – but not all – of the panic as I realize Arkel is at least not under attack, but squatting by one of the burrows, one hand clutched in another.

"What happened? Are you okay?" My words stumble over each other.

He grimaces up at me, tightening his hold on his wrist. The tips of his knuckles whiten. "Y-yeah. I think so. Something in there" – a brief nod at the tunnel – "got me, but it doesn't feel too ba-"

"Oh, Panem." I shoo him out of the way and crouch down to peer inside the hole, careful not to let my own hands stray too close. Predictably, nothing can be seen. Motioning for Arkel to back up, I grab a fist-sized rock and smash it against the soil above. It caves in, sending its occupant scuttling out in a frenzy of shiny black shell and scuttling feet. My weapon slams down instinctively.

A thrill of horror prickles into my throat as I examine the remains of the creature. Wicked pincers. Too many legs. A large stinger, dangling above its head and curved to a sinister point. I don't know its name, but whatever it is, I've certainly never seen anything like it before.

_No more distractions, _I think again. _They really want us gone. _

Arkel's groan recaptures my attention. Spinning back towards him, I reach for his tightly-gripped wrist. "Here, let me see it."

"N-no!" He flinches away. Rather sheepishly, "It hurts."

"Which is why you need me to do something about it," I mutter, too concerned to voice any irritation. "Please, just hold still."

Reluctantly, he complies. Maneuvering my fingers as gingerly as if I'm connecting two wires, I slide his right hand away from the other. I'm not quick enough to disguise my sharp intake of breath. What can't be more than a minute-old wound has bloomed into a lump the size of a large pea, worryingly white and topped with a purplish puncture mark.

"Is it bad?" Arkel asks anxiously.

I bite my lip. Although I've dealt with my fair share of minor scrapes and cuts in the factories, and I spent some time at the first-aid station in training, neither of those taught me how to deal with what could very well be poison. There are no venomous animals in District Three. Dad and my schoolteachers often warned us about toxic berries growing on the outskirts of the district, but those were a whole different matter, and I never ventured far enough from home to encounter them anyway.

"I don't know," I admit, attempting to comb the worry from my voice. What have previous tributes done in situations like this? Many have been poisoned, certainly, but I can't recall any surviving … I think the venom has to be sucked out? What if I accidentally swallow some? How could I be sure it wouldn't kill me, too?

"Don't ask why," I say briefly before clamping my lips around the swelling and sucking in.

Arkel jerks in surprise, yanking his hand away before I can even tell if I've made any progress. "Wha – what are you doing?"

A flush of anger darkens my skin. "I don't know, trying to get it out? Isn't that what you're supposed to do? I thought I might have seen some tribute-"

"Well, what if it gets in to you?" Arkel retorts, just as baffled as I am. His eyes drop back to the wound. "I don't think there's much good you could have done, anyway."

"W-why?"

"Just look."

Scrutinizing it more closely, I realize that he's right. What I took for the indentation of a sting is in fact a tiny scab. The opening has already healed itself up. Whether this is natural or some cruel mechanism of a Capitol mutt, I have no idea. Only one thing is clear. With resolution, I make up my mind.

"Forget about leaving. We're not doing any travelling. Not until you're positive you feel okay."

Arkel protests as I haul him to his feet. "But Wiress – the Capitol-"

"Still has eight other tributes to entertain them." My mind reels at the brazen callousness of my own words, but the shock comes from behind a steel wall; there is no place for it now. "What more can they do, anyway? They've already made their point. Come on, we're going back to the bush-burrow."

He doesn't make another sound apart from the occasional whimper as I steer him back up the path. About halfway up I remember he's capable of walking without my assistance, but my hands stay firmly around his back and under his arm. This ends up coming in handy when he has to get into the shelter without putting weight on his injured hand. After an awkward struggle, he tumbles into the corner, with me dropping in a moment afterwards.

"All right," I find myself mumbling repeatedly, rifling through our meagre supplies. No painkillers, no antivenom, nothing even that could act as gauze… "All right. We'll just make do with what we have for now, and Beetee's bound to send us something if we really need it. Right?"

No response. My head swivels in Arkel's direction, even though I'd barely taken my eyes off him for a minute. He's still in the same position, sprawled on his back with a death-grip around his wrist. "Right?"

"Right."

Hurriedly, I rip apart the bottom section of my tank top – fortunately, the fabric is elastic enough to substitute for bandages – and grab a handful of leaves from our bag. Cracking a few in half, I dab some water on the puncture wound. Then I chew up several of the juicy green sacs, spit out the mush, and spread it gently over the infected area.

To be honest, I have no idea whether or not this will do anything, but it makes sense to keep the skin cool and soft, if nothing else. Maybe the leaves will even draw the venom out somehow? Something in the back of my mind nags that it's a false hope – if this plant was some sort of antidote, surely it would have been mentioned in training – but I need to have something to cling to. More than that, Arkel does as well.

"That should keep it from stinging too badly for a while," I explain, trying both to emulate Talee's typical confidence and to forget that the last time I heard it she was telling me I wouldn't be reaped."I'm going to do the bandages now."

"Mm-hmm."

While stretching out the long strip of cloth, it occurs to me that I'll have to put a bit of pressure on the bulbous wound. "This might sting a little bit, Arkel. Do you have anything you can squeeze if it hurts too much? To help you get through it, you know?"

He shakes his head.

"Not even your district token?" Granted, the metal screw isn't exactly what I had in mind, but, as Arkel said himself, it's better than nothing.

"Nah, they confiscated that. Said it was too much like a weapon. As if I'd even be able to get close enough to another tribute to even use it."

Indignation cuts like a knife. The Capitol had to take away even that little bit of home, and in the name of leveling an irreparably unbalanced playing field?

"That's a shame," I say, which doesn't seem enough but will have to do.

"Don't worry about it. I'd say it was just a piece of junk, but you'd probably tell me not to put myself down or something like that."

"Correct." Forcing a half-smile that mirrors Arkel's own, I start wrapping the fabric around his hand. He tenses up when it presses against the swelling, but I let him grab my own hand until the worst of it has passed.

"There," I say when it's all finished, smile perhaps a bit too wide to seem genuine. Arkel's attention is fixed on the burrow's wall, anyway, so him noticing is the least of our worries. "I'm going to get some water now. We can put it on the poultice to keep it fresh. You could use a drink, too."

"Thanks," he intones weakly.

I try to think of something reassuring to say, but can't decide on anything before hoisting myself back out and setting to work beneath the glare of the omnipresent, deridingly parachute-less sky.

~~0~~

"Arkel?" My voice hovers around a whisper as I plop back into the burrow, tin container of water clutched carefully in my hands. For a moment I take the silence to mean he's gone to sleep, but this hope is dashed when he gives a faint, dull reply.

"You're awake?" I settle the water-carrier into my lap and scoot as close to him as the tapering ceiling will allow. "How are you feeling?"

"Lousy." Thirst encrusts his voice. "Do you have the water?"

"Yeah, of course." Trying in vain not to spill any, I mold the bowl's rim into a crude spout and pour some into Arkel's mouth. Droplets rain all over his face. Apologetically, I tip it backwards to lessen its deluge.

"No, no, don't stop," Arkel mutters. "It's all right. It's way too hot in here anyways."

"Really?" I frown. The burrow provides the only real respite from the baking sunlight outside. I'd thought that the dirt and shade would help cool him down. Setting down the water, I lay a hand against his forehead.

"Agh, don't!" My district partner thrashes. "You're burning!"

_I could say the same for you. _My hand comes away slathered in sweat. Now that I look more closely, his arms and calves are slick with perspiration as well.

"This is probably the coldest place in the arena," I say helplessly. "Would it help if you took off your shirt?"

"I don't think it would do much difference," he responds, tugging at the thin, sleeveless garment with his good hand. "I just want more water – please."

We go through the entire container and Arkel still complains of the heat. I try rubbing the leaf poultice over his forehead, sprinkling cool dust onto his skin, simply drenching him in another bowlful of water; nothing makes any difference. Midway through the third bowl, he suddenly motions for me to stop.

"What's wrong?" Pulling himself into a seated position, he slices a hand frantically through the air in a 'shut up' gesture. Bewildered, I can do nothing but watch as he sinks onto his hands and knees and attempts to crawl towards the opposite end of the den. I realize what's going to happen a moment before he spasms and vomits.

Arkel groans and attempts to shift dirt over the little pile, but I coax him back to where he was lying. Lifting a hand to his lower throat area, he collapses once more onto his side.

"That's enough water for now, then," I say, for lack of a more intelligent comment.

Groaning, Arkel nods agreement.

"You'll dehydrate really quickly, though, with all of that gone – do you want me to go get another-"

"N-no," he wheezes, shaking his head feebly. "Too nauseous. Honestly, it's not even the thirst that's that bad. 'M just boiling. And sore all over. I can hardly swallow, anyway, there's so much spit welling up-" As if to prove his point, he jerks yet again and deposits a fresh spattering of saliva. This one is bright red.

Unable to watch any longer, I thrust myself up into the sunlight. There must be thousands of cameras on me now, each lens another eye in the great blue dome. Beetee is behind one of them. "Sponsors!"

No parachute descends.

"Sponsors! Antidote! Antivenom!" The ensuing silence only spurs me on. I scream until I am hoarse. "Painkillers? Beetee, please!"

Nothing.

Beetee could not possibly misunderstand. If there was any doubt before that Arkel's in danger, it's certainly been dispelled by his vomiting fit. Perhaps Maybell's the one in the control room? I don't find it too hard to believe, given her apathy towards both of our lives, that she could watch all of this unfold without lifting a finger. But – no, Beetee wouldn't allow that. Would he? I don't want to believe it. Not after what he told me about Cherise, about all the other tributes he's mentored…

The only other explanation infects my mind, seeping like toxic fumes past my frail barriers of hope. We must not have enough sponsors.

I don't even realize that I've stumbled back into the burrow until I'm shaking Arkel's drawstring bag upside-down, furiously searching for anything of use. Its contents refuse to spill out. No – wait – they're scattered all over the ground, the matches and purifying tablets and the knife. The wretched knife, infuriating in its uselessness, its stark contrast to what we need the most. And all the while the bag is mocking me, the loose cloth proclaiming that this is all we have, all we have, _all we have…!_

Tossing it away, I return to Arkel. He doesn't acknowledge my approach. A touch of his unharmed wrist confirms that his pulse is soaring. Saliva bubbles up in the corners of his mouth with each ragged breath. As I reach to daub more water on his forehead, I notice with a sickening jolt that his gaze doesn't even follow my hand, but wanders erratically around the far end of the burrow.

"H-hey! Arkel! Don't-"

I don't even know what I want him to do. Wake up? He's still conscious. Get better? I'm not the Capitol. I can't command the world to stop with my words alone.

"W-Wiress?" Arkel's voice is laced with confusion. "Where did you – how long were you gone?"

"Just a few minutes, getting some fresh air," I hasten to explain. No need to tell him about our lack of funds. "Why; did you fall asleep?"

"I don't even know." Arkel attempts to shift, but his legs can't seem to do much else but twitch sporadically. "I can't really tell. It's like I keep blanking out, and then I don't know whether it's been minutes or hours or … is it even the same day?"

It can't have been more than a few hours since he was stung. "Yes, definitely."

"Huh." Any further pondering is cut off by another bout of violent contractions. Trying to ignore the feel of dirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, I just manage to pull him over onto his side before he moans and vomits blood again.

"I don't suppose _it's_ going to get thrown up, too?" I ask guardedly.

He can't speak for several moments; when he does, his voice is frighteningly weak. "D-don't think so. Didn't drink it, after all."

"Well…" Unwillingly, I cast a glance back at the silver blade in the dust, then to his bandaged hand. The lump has swelled grotesquely, staining the wrappings an ominous maroon. "Do you want me to – to cut it open? Try and suck it out again?"

"Wiress."

"What?" My words tremble, as if struggling to balance atop a knife's edge. "It's the best we have right now! It – it might still work, you never know! There's nothing-"

"_Wiress_."

Feeble as it is, his tone is strong with something I've never wanted to hear. Finality.

"Wiress, it's okay." He rolls back onto the ground, a pained smile briefly widening his face. "You – you've done enough for me already."

"What?" Time suddenly progresses too quickly; I'm frozen in its wake. This can't be happening. He can't be giving up already. I never wanted this moment to come; I knew deep down that it would, but not so soon, not now, not like this–

"I mean it, Wiress. J-just go. They'll find some other way of making you leave if you're not quick enough." A long, shaky breath; he hacks up more blood. "You d-don't always have to be the hero."

"Me, be the hero? You're the one who's trying to act noble! You can't honestly want me to just – just leave you here. Not really. I know you. You don't want to be alone."

Arkel sighs and averts his gaze. I'm sure I've made my point clear enough. He won't ask me to leave. He knows I can't.

"You're right," he finally says. His voice is barely audible. "I don't want to be here, all alone, in pain, for – for however long it takes. I don't want that. If you – if you r-really want to do something for me, can you – can you-"

He points shakily at the jumble of supplies beneath the bush-burrow hole, then draws a single finger across his own neck. I know what he means almost immediately, but it's a moment before it sinks in.

"N-no way." I try to scramble backwards. "Absolutely not. You – you know what I said! You know I'm not going to – to do that! I wouldn't stoop that low!"

"It's not like that," he insists. "It wouldn't count as a kill; not in the way they think it is. I know it's not because you – you don't care."

"If you know I care, then you wouldn't ask me to do this!"

"Nobody will hold it against you, Wiress. I promise I won't. I just – I don't want it to keep going like this for so long, I don't want my brothers to have to watch f-for so long, I don't want-"

"That's just the poison talking! You're in a panic because you're going to – because you think you're going to – to –"

Composure fails to maintain its foothold; no coherent words will come. The burrow dissolves into a blur of warm wetness. How can he ask this? Has nothing I've said, nothing I've _done, _for him made any sort of impact? Can he really envision me picking up the knife, holding it steady, tossing him away with a flick of the wrist?

"Please, Wiress." A blood bubble bursts and inches down Arkel's chin towards his collarbone. Slowly, slowly.

"No." I force my gaze away from his throat, with its naked, vulnerable skin. "If you're going to keep pressuring me, I'm not going to listen anymore."

My hands find the entrance hole and I force myself out. It's dark outside. I hadn't even noticed that night had come. Unconsciously, I fumble about for the gentle slope that signals the downwards path and plant my feet there. Not leaving but not staying. I can't do either. I can't even move.

Arkel begs for me to return, but to no avail. With each strangled cry I see myself giving in to his pleas. My own hands curling around the handle of the knife. The blade pressing against his throat, parting the skin effortlessly, drowning amidst the spurt of red. I'm so close I can feel him crumple, the heat fleeing from his body as vividly as if it's leaving my own. On screens throughout the country, accompanied by the cheers of the Capitol and the mourning of my own district, the words 'Arkel Schmidt' fade and reappear beneath 'Wiress Bentell.' My kill list.

The condemning letters sear themselves into my mind. Every minute, every second of the rest of my life, his name would blaze beneath mine, the only lasting tribute to a boy who became so much more than just a jumble of letters before I reduced him to the same.

As the night drags on, his pleading trails off into apologies, then more retching, then silence. Perhaps he's fallen asleep. That would be a relief for both of us. I'm not sure how much longer I could have stood here, listening to his agony without –

A cannon fires.

No – no, it's not him – it could be anyone else, anywhere in the arena – there's no need to assume –

The stench surges to greet me as I stumble into the burrow. Blood and sweat and diarrhoea and I don't want to know what else. Something's splayed out on the ground, limbs at awkward angles, but it's cold and stiff and not human, and it won't move; no matter how much I shake it, no matter how much I scream at it –

What's that, growling and scratching at the tunnel entrance? It's some sort of animal, some ravenous hungry beast that wants him, but I won't give him up. That would make it real, that would deal the final blow in a way I swore not to.

The hovercraft claw rips out the bush, tearing away our ceiling in a shower of dirt and twigs. Nothing more stands between us and the black night sky. I cling to the thing that used to be Arkel, but the greedy metal hand is stronger. It pulls. I can't hold on.

"N-no! You can't take him! Give him back!"

A girl's voice is screaming with inhuman grief. The metal claw ascends.

"_Give him back_!"

But the hovercraft does not obey, and there's nothing I can do but collapse into the bloody dirt and pray that sleep is merciful enough to take me quickly.


End file.
